Country of the Heart
by Mousme
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Sam finds himself put in foster care after being hospitalized for meningitis. For a while he thinks he's found "normal," but when John and Dean go missing on a hunt, he sets out to reunite the family he's always truly wanted.
1. Chapter 1

Title: **Country of the Heart**

Summary: After being hospitalized for meningitis, fifteen-year-old Sam finds himself put in a foster home while John is investigated for suspected abuse. Against all of Sam's expectations, his foster family turns out to be a caring couple with the kind of home Sam only ever saw from the outside while he was growing up, making him feel even more conflicted about the kind of life his own family leads. To make matters worse, John leaves town to go on a routine hunt in spite of his upcoming custody hearing, prompting Sam to wonder if his own father and brother might be relieved to have him —and his constant demands for normalcy— out of the picture. When his father goes missing, followed by Dean when he goes after him, Sam quickly discovers that they need him just as much as he needs them, and sets out to bring his family back together again, for good.

Characters: Sam, Dean, John, OCs (mostly Sam)

Artist: **naisica **(You can find her art by going to naisica dot livejournal dot com slash 170659 dot html)**  
**

Rating: PG-13 for language and show-levels of violence

Wordcount: 23,606

Disclaimer: All fun, no profit. Please don't sue.

Warnings: Sam!whump like whoa, mild swearing,

Neurotic Author's Note #1: Many, many thanks go to **yasminke**, who beta'd this thing, and **embroiderama**, who not only beta'd but also gave me lots of useful insider information on VA. Further thanks go to **icelily01** who, many many months ago sent me a huge document on how CPS works in VA so that my story would at the very least hold together. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Neurotic Author's Note #2: I was lucky enough to be paired up again with the extraordinary naisica, who some of you may remember was the artist for my 2010 spn_j2_bigbang, Nihil Inherit. I suggest you immediately go and click on her art post and tell her how absolutely phenomenal her work is. The amount of thought she puts into the composition of her art blows my mind every single time, and the artwork she did for this story is no exception. Go now! I will wait while you do that.

Neurotic Author's Note #3: If this fic feels very long on Sam and very short on anyone else, not to mention _really_ long on whump, it's because it was originally from a prompt by **rainylemons** for the ohsam Sam-focused h/c challenge, which I then converted to this challenge, with her permission.

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**Part I**

"Hey, Gimpy! Dinner's ready. You coming, or what?"

Sam's head jerks up from where he's hunched over a history textbook, precariously balanced on his thigh, resting against the pure white cast that encases his leg from toes to mid-thigh. He winces as the movement sends a jolt of pain up his spine and right into his head and blinks, suddenly painfully aware of the headache that's been building steadily for the past hour or two without his really noticing. His t-shirt is soaked with sweat under the arms, courtesy of an unseasonably warm month of May.

"What?"

Dean steps into the tiny living room of the apartment Dad managed to rent for them by the week while he's off on his latest hunt. Sam is officially benched thanks to his broken femur —courtesy of an overenthusiastic poltergeist and a very heavy dresser—which of course means that Dean is stuck with babysitting duty. Neither of them is especially pleased with the situation, Dean because he wants to be with Dad, and Sam because he's fifteen years old and can take care of himself, thank you very much. Except, of course, that his leg damned well hurts all the time, and getting around on crutches is harder than it looks, especially with several bruised ribs and one rib that's slightly cracked. On the plus side, his older brother hasn't yet managed to catch him unawares in order to draw lewd pictures on his cast with a Sharpie, so it's not all bad. The last time Sam had a cast he woke up one day to find Dean had drawn a penis that was alarmingly anatomically correct, forcing him to wear long sleeves for one excruciatingly long week in July until he found some liquid paper that successfully covered it. Otherwise, his casts always remain unadorned –it's not like he has any other friends to sign them, after all.

"Dinner," Dean enunciates exaggeratedly, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. "You sure that poltergeist didn't crack your head?"

"Funny," Sam mutters, although right now it kind of feels like Dean is right. His head is killing him. He rolls his shoulders, trying to get rid of the tension in his neck. "What're we having?"

"Whatever's put in front of you," Dean says pointedly, reminding him yet again that Sam's not the guy in charge of making decisions around here. "But if you must know, macaroni and cheese and hot dogs. And don't whine about the lack of vegetables. This is all we can afford until Dad gets back. You know as well as I do this stuff lasts longer."

"Wasn't going to say anything," Sam keeps his head ducked, fumbles for his crutches, and hoists himself up onto them. The room wavers as he stands, and he has to brace himself against his crutches for a second, willing the dizziness away, before shuffling after his brother into the kitchen.

"Shake a leg, Sammy," Dean is already at the stove, stirring the contents of a large, discoloured pot. "How do you expect that leg to heal if you don't eat?"

"It's Sam."

It's even hotter in the kitchen thanks to the stove being on, which doesn't help at all with the dizziness. Sam plunks himself down in one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table with a sigh and a wince as the movement jolts his head, reaches for his glass of water, figuring he's probably dehydrated, which would explain the headache. "Not hungry. It's too hot to eat, anyway."

Dean rolls his eyes, shoves a plate full of macaroni and cheese toward him. "Eat anyway, princess. It's not like we have money coming out of our ears, so you don't get to waste perfectly good food." He sits down, tucks into his own food with enthusiasm that's bordering on the pornographic, which Sam figures is exaggerated for his benefit.

Sam makes a show of putting a forkful of food in his mouth. "I'm eating, see?" he swallows, then ducks his head and swallows again as his stomach churns. He takes a careful sip of water from the glass Dean set out for him, and very hard to eat the rest of his food. Four bites in he has to stop again, stomach threatening to rebel, and rubs the heel of his hand against his temple, trying to get the throbbing to die down a bit. He considers asking when Dad is supposed to get back, then thinks better of it. It's not like Dean knows how long this hunt is going to take —no more than Sam does, anyway— and all it's going to do is spark yet another argument, and he's tired of arguing with Dean.

"Okay, what's wrong?"

He looks up, squints a bit in the bright glare of the ceiling fixture. "What? Nothing."

Dean's plate is almost completely empty, which means Sam spaced out for a while. The thought is a little disturbing. "Yeah, I don't think so. Usually you're a bottomless pit. What's wrong? You sulking about Dad again? Because you know how the two of you are when you get into it, saying all sorts of stupid shit you don't mean."

"I'm not sulking."

"Girl trouble?" Dean leers.

"Dean!"

"Okay, what then? Come on, don't be emo and broody, just tell me what's eating at you, already."

Sam shrugs, which makes his neck twinge in protest. "Nothing. Headache."

Dean's face immediately screws up in concern, and he leans forward. "Migraine?"

Sam bites back the annoyed retort that threatens to spill from him. It's a legitimate question, after all, and he's got no right to be irritated by Dean's probing. Of all the things he could have wanted to inherit from his mother's side of the family, migraines are pretty low down on the list, but they've been his lot in life since he was eleven years old, and he's mostly learned to live with them. Even Dad doesn't mess with the migraines, just lets him shut himself in a dark room with his meds and an ice pack until the pain stops. Sam rubs at his eyes some more.

"No, I don't think so. No spots or anything, and my vision isn't blurry. It just hurts."

"You were staring at that damned history book all afternoon. Can't have helped. You wanna lie down? I can reheat dinner later," Dean is trying not let the worry creep into his voice, and failing, and it just makes Sam's head hurt more. Just once, he'd like to not be on the receiving end of all of Dean's protective efforts. Then again, lying down sounds like the best idea ever right about now.

"Yeah, okay," he nods. "Sorry about the food."

"Don't worry about it," Dean's hand is at the small of his back as he struggles to his feet again and limps toward the bedroom. "That's why they invented Tupperware."

"We don't own any Tupperware."

"Details."

He and Dean have been sharing a king-sized bed as best they can, which has been harder than usual since Sam underwent his last growth spurt, which added a good three inches to his frame, and harder still now that he has to negotiate his cast on top of everything else. Sam props his crutches against the wall and eases himself slowly onto the bed, wincing even as he drops his head onto his pillow. To say he feels like shit would be putting it mildly. Things are getting a little blurry, soft around the edges, and he wonders if it isn't a migraine after all, even though it's not like the ones he usually gets. Even the dim light from the bedside lamp feels like he's staring right at the sun, and he throws an arm over his eyes to shield them. The bed dips, and Dean nudges his leg.

"I got water and Tylenol. You sure it's not a migraine?"

"I dunno," Sam can hear the whine creeping into his voice, and cringes inwardly. So much for proving how much of an adult he is. "The light hurts, but it's not the same. I just wanna sleep. Please?"

Dean blows out his cheeks, but he pats Sam's good knee. "Okay. Tylenol first, then I'll let you sleep. Let's get you out of your clothes –you can't sleep in them." His brother's talking to him like he's an idiot child, but Sam can't bring himself to care enough to protest. He manages not to whimper as Dean pulls his t-shirt over his head, jolting his neck painfully. He tries to help pull off the sweatpants he's been all but living in since he broke his leg –most of his other clothes won't fit over the cast– but Dean ends up doing most of the work anyway. He ends up in his boxers under the thin sheet on the bed, can't even curl up the way he wants to, the cast getting in his way. Dean pats his hip lightly before getting up.

"Yell if you need anything, okay?"

Sam manages a vaguely affirmative hum, feels himself relax a bit when Dean switches out the light. His head and neck still hurt like hell, but it's not as bad now. He concentrates on relaxing his muscles one by one, the way Dad showed him, and eventually drifts into an uneasy sleep filled with dreams of fire.

He's not sure how much time has passed when he awakens again, but it's still dark. He shoves weakly at the sheet covering him, feeling as though he's being steamed alive, bites back a whimper as pain flares in his neck and shoots straight into his skull. His throat is dry, burning. Water. The word swims to the surface of his thoughts, and he's pretty sure it's the best idea he's had in a while. He wriggles awkwardly on the bed, hampered by his cast and by limbs that feel weighted down by lead. Finally he swings his legs over the side of the bed, gropes blindly for his crutches, and feels the room lurch nauseatingly beneath his feet. He lands in a painful tangle of arms and legs beside the bed, can't help the cry of pain as it feels like electricity coursing through his skull.

A moment later he hears Dean stir on the bed.

"Sammy?"

There's a rustling of sheets, and his brother slips off the bed to crouch, cat-like and graceful, next to him. The light switches on, and more electricity stabs behind his eyelids. "D'you fall? What happened?"

His lips part, but he only manages a quiet moan in response. His tongue feels like it's three times its normal size and cleaved to the roof of his mouth.

A cool hand presses against his forehead. "Shit, you're burning up." Dean struggles to prop him up against the bed. "Should've seen you were getting sick. Shit!"

He tries to answer, but he's pretty sure that whatever he just mumbled, it's not what he meant to say. A moment later Dean is shaking him gently, trying to get him to drink some water. He does his best, but no matter what Dean says, he can't make himself do any of it, and he whimpers in protest as his brother tries to haul him back onto the bed.

"Come on, Sam. We gotta get you up. Just a little water and the Tylenol, then you can lie down again, okay?"

He tries to shake his head, and moans when that sends pain radiating down his spine. "No, please... Dean... hurts," he manages.

The hand is back, soothing against his skin. "What hurts, Sammy?"

He almost can't answer, his tongue tangling around his teeth. "Light. Turn it off?"

"Yeah, okay. Sure, Sammy. You hold tight, okay?"

The light goes off again, and he sags in relief, but it's momentary. The pain returns, worse than ever. His vision swims, goes dark, and when things come back into focus he hears Dean talking. It takes him a moment to realize Dean isn't talking to him.

"Dad? It's me... No, it's not. Sammy's sick... No, it's bad, I have to get him to a hospital... Yeah... No, it really can't wait, something's really wrong, he's got a fever and he's barely conscious... No, uh, look, can you just come, please? We're going now. Call me as soon as you get back, okay?"

Pain flares bright and loud in Sam's head, and the rest of the conversation is lost in swirling darkness.

Sam doesn't remember much after that. Reality comes at him in brilliantly coloured flashes. There are bright lights, people moving, and there's a lot of jolting and sounds that make no sense. He feels hands on him, and then there are more lights, hands probing at his head and neck and shoulders.

"Sam, can you move your head for me?"

He doesn't recognize the voice, struggles to shove away the intrusive touches, but he can't move his hands, can't raise his arms. The voice comes back, softer, reassuring, tells him to hold very still while they turn him on his side. There's a new pain, low in his back, and he jerks and cries out, and the hands hold him down while the voices murmur all around him. He tries to force his eyes open, sees only pale blue fabric, rustling and moving inches away from his face, and he lets his eyes close again.

"Dean?"

"Who's Dean, sweetie?"

The darkness pulls him back under.

The next time he manages to open his eyes he's alone in a room that's almost completely dark save for a few dimly lit ceiling fixtures. His chest hurts and the smell of antiseptic hangs heavy and pungent in the air. Hospital, then, he thinks dimly, before his eyes slip shut again and he lets himself drift back into unconsciousness. He doesn't want to wake up, is all he can think the next time he feels himself surfacing. This time there's someone there: he catches sight of brown eyes above a blue surgical mask. He tries to open his mouth, to ask where Dean is, where Dad is, but there's something in his mouth, in his throat, and he gags and coughs, feels panic bubble up in his chest because he can't breathe past the obstruction. Immediately there's a hand on his shoulder, and a voice breaks through the panic.

"It's okay, Sam. You were having trouble breathing so we had to put a tube in your throat to help you, all right sweetie? I need you to relax, now, and let the machine keep working. Come on, now." A hand tightens over his fingers, squeezes them reassuringly. "Come on, Sam, relax, okay?"

Dad taught him better than this. Winchesters don't panic. He screws his eyes shut, forces himself not to fight the ventilator. He knows what this is, he's seen them before, even if he's never had one up close and personal like this before. After a few minutes the urge to claw at his throat recedes, and he opens his eyes again to find the same brown eyes hovering right above him.

"Good job," the voice says. It's a woman, but he doesn't recognize her. Then again, in that get-up he wouldn't be able to recognize anyone, he thinks. "The doctor will probably want to take that out soon, now that you're back with us. You gave us all quite a scare."

Dean, he thinks. He can't talk, can't really move. He blinks at the nurse, trying to ask the question with his eyes, but Dean isn't here, and Dean's the only person who'd understand.

"It's okay, sweetie," the nurse pats his hand. "We're going to add something to your IV to help you relax, just for a little while longer. You go on back to sleep, now, and the doctor will come talk to you later, okay?"

He wants to ask her a thousand, a million questions, but his eyes are slipping shut of their own accord. He drifts to sleep, still thinking about Dad and Dean, and why they weren't there when he woke up. When he wakes up again, there's even less pain than before. It feels at once like he's floating and weighted down with lead. There are three people there, dressed in identical blue scrubs. One of them is talking to him, he realizes, and he forces himself to focus, squinting stupidly at her. His head is throbbing, but it's not as bad as he thinks it was before.

"... need you to breathe out as I'm pulling, okay?"

He barely has the chance to nod before they're removing the ventilator tube, and it's just as unpleasant as he thought it would be. He coughs and gags, feels like he's choking. A hand rubs between his shoulder blades, eases him back onto the bed when he's able to draw in a desperate, gasping breath.

"That was great, you did really well, Sam," the voice says as more plastic-gloved hands carefully slip a cannula under his nose. It feels weird, but not nearly as unpleasant as the ventilator.

Things are spinning again. "Dean?" he barely recognizes the dry rasp as his own voice. He feels something cold brush against his lips, and when he parts them he feels ice melting against his tongue. "Where's Dad?" he croaks, a little bit louder.

A hand brushes the hair back from his forehead. "They can't be here right now, sweetie. You concentrate on getting better, okay?"

It's not right. Dean should be here, he's always here, but he can't make his mouth form the words. Sam tries to sit up, to make them understand that he needs to see Dean, but his body has betrayed him. 'What's wrong with me?' He wants to ask, can't make his lips and tongue obey him. He lets his eyes close with a sigh of resignation.

It starts getting better after that. He can stay awake for more than a few seconds at a time, and the pain is kept at bay by whatever medication the hospital is pumping into his IV. He's not sure how much time goes by, but when he wakes up he's in a different room, this time with yellow walls and thin, mustard-coloured blanket over his bed instead of the scratchy sheets from before. He shifts uncomfortably in his bed, his skin crawling with the sensation of dried sweat. His breath feels raspy, like someone's replaced the inside of his lungs with sandpaper. There's a call button tied to the bars of his bed, and after a moment's fumbling he's able to press it.

A young woman in scrubs with jungle animals printed on it materializes in the doorway. She smiles. "Hey, look who's awake and using the call button! How're you feeling, Sam?"

He shakes his head. "I dunno. What's wrong with me?" He coughs, his throat dry, chest aching distantly, and the nurse –or so he assumes, anyway– fills a cup with water, adds a straw, and holds it for him to drink.

"Small sips," she cautions. "You had a bad case of meningitis," she explains as he does as instructed. "Do you know what that is?"

He swallows his mouthful of water. "Yeah, sort of. Uh, bacterial or viral?" he doesn't know why he's asking, only that it feels important.

"Bacterial," she smiles. "Aren't you well-informed. Drink some more, okay? We're keeping you hydrated with the IV, but the sooner you start drinking on your own, the better. You also had a pretty bad bout of pneumonia. That's why we had to put you on the ventilator. Go on, drink."

Obediently he takes another sip of water. "Where's my dad? My brother?"

Her smile falters. "They can't be here right now. Someone is going to come and talk to you about that later. They'll explain everything, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," he's tired all of a sudden, his head flopping back against the thin hospital pillow. "Can I see them later?"

"Maybe. I just don't know. Are you in any pain, sweetie?"

He shakes his head, is pleased to note it doesn't hurt to do that anymore. "I wanna talk to my family."

"Aw, sweetie, I'm sorry," her expression goes soft, mirroring her apology, and unexpectedly he feels his throat tighten. "That's not going to happen just yet. You need to hang tight, okay?"

His eyes sting, and he blinks, willing himself not to cry. He's too old to cry, no matter how alone he is. "When can I see them?"

"Not just yet," she repeats. "I'm sorry."

They must be on a hunt. He can't think of another reason they'd leave him by himself in a hospital. "Did –did they leave a message before they went? About when they'd be back?"

"Oh, Sam, honey, they didn't leave," the nurse gives his knee a squeeze, and he feels his heart give a painful lurch at the thought that Dad and Dean aren't gone, after all. "They're just not allowed in right now."

"Why not?"

"The social worker will come and talk to you soon," she says, rather than answering. "She's going to have some questions, and then we'll see, okay?"

"Okay," he slumps against his pillow.

But really, it's anything but that.

The social worker comes the next day, by the time the nurses and an older woman he finally learns is called Dr. Shaw are thoroughly sick of him asking about his family between bouts of coughing. The social worker is another older woman cut seemingly from the same mould as Dr. Shaw, dressed in a drab brown skirt and a sensible-looking cardigan. She tells him he can call her by her first name, Audrey, and for a while he thinks she might be okay, even though Dad has always told them to stay away from social services, that they can't be trusted.

"You gave everybody quite a scare, Sam," she says, drawing up a chair by his bed. "You were a very sick young man." She's plump, sweet-looking, with short red hair framing a round, pleasant face.

He nods, not sure what she's driving at. "I didn't mean to," he keeps his voice quiet.

She smiles warmly. "Of course you didn't. No one ever means to get sick. I just have a few questions for you, okay? I want you to be honest with me."

"Right."

"You got hurt before you got sick, right Sam?"

This is a trap. He can tell, even though he isn't sure where it's been set, exactly. "Yeah, I broke my leg." As if it isn't obvious that his leg is in a cast.

"And your ribs."

"Yeah," he agrees reluctantly.

"Can you tell me how you did that?"

"I fell down a flight of stairs." The lessons he learnt from Dad: keep your story short, simple. Avoid giving unnecessary details, and base your lie in the truth, that way it's easier to sell.

She purses her lips, jots something down on a legal pad in her lap. "Sounds like a pretty bad fall."

For a moment his stomach bottoms out as he remembers the poltergeist flinging the chest of drawers at him; the sickening crack as it connected with his leg, the dizzying drop as he fell backward down the stairs, tumbling head over heels to fall in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the staircase. He remembers Dean's terrified yell, Dad's face looming over him, furious and worried, the pain that made him wonder if the chest of drawers wasn't still on top of him, crushing his chest. He swallows a mouthful of saliva, wipes palms that are suddenly moist with sweat on his flimsy hospital gown.

"Yeah, it was pretty bad."

"How about your arm?"

"My arm?" He looks at her sharply, thrown off-guard by the question. His arms are fine, at least right now.

"It's been broken before, hasn't it?"

"Yeah. I fell off my bike a while back." He knows he sounds defensive, can't help it. He doesn't know where this line of questioning is heading, but he does know he doesn't like it. He doesn't want to have to lie outright about what he and Dad and Dean do, but it won't be the first time he's lied to an adult to keep the hunting a secret.

Audrey pats his knee. "Sam, you don't have to lie to me. You're perfectly safe, here."

"I'm not lying!" he says hotly, insulted at the suggestion, even though he has sort of been lying, if only by omission, and the outburst makes him start coughing again. He feels a flush creep up his neck and cheeks, rubs his temple with one hand, trying to get his thoughts to stand still, just for one second.

"All right, okay," she lifts her hands palms up in a placating gesture. "But the doctors here tell me you've had lots of injuries like that, that you were covered in bruises when you were admitted, that there's evidence of multiple broken bones going back for years. Do you want to tell me about that?"

He shakes his head, trying to ignore the dull throb that's starting behind his eyes. He should have known, should have seen this coming. This happened to Dean a few years ago when he broke his clavicle on a hunt, the result of yet another angry spirit who refused to go gently into that good night. "It's not what you think."

She fixes him with a look, half-pitying, as though he's some sort of kitten she wants to rescue from drowning, and he decides he hates it. "And what do I think?"

"You think my dad's hurting me. He's not."

"Is it your brother, then?" She asks the question like it's perfectly normal.

"What? No! Dean would never do anything like that!" he struggles to sit up, only to find himself pushed back gently onto the bed.

"Okay, okay, settle down. I believe you, it's not your brother," Audrey says soothingly, and by now he's too exhausted to put up much of a fight. "Look, Sam, I'm going to be honest with you, because I think you're more than old enough to understand this. You're presenting with some pretty classic signs of abuse, and the judge has agreed. Until we can sort this out, your family isn't going to be allowed to see you. Do you understand?"

"What? That's bullshit!" he swallows, trying to stave off another coughing fit. "You can't do that!"

She flinches slightly, obviously surprised at his tone. "I think you'll find that we can."

"But it's not fair. I didn't do anything wrong!" he protests. Dad's going to kill him for this, he thinks with something bordering on panic. He's committed the cardinal of all Winchester sins, drawn attention to himself and by extension to the family, and now the authorities are stepping in. It's a nightmare.

"I know it may seem that way to you now, Sam, but we're just trying to do what's best for you. It's not about what you did."

"What's best for me is seeing my dad and my brother. I just want to go home."

"I'm sorry, but that's just not going to happen. There has to be an investigation first, to make sure you're safe where you are. I know you're angry and upset, and that's perfectly normal—"

"Don't tell me what's normal!" He's on the verge of tears again, and he has no idea why. Dean would be all over him for being a crybaby, Sam thinks a little hysterically, but ever since he woke up it's like the tears have a mind of their own, leaking from the corners of his eyes without so much as consulting him on the matter. He wants nothing more to explain to this stupid woman that there's nowhere safer than with Dad and Dean, but there's no way to make her understand that without making them all sound like they're ten kinds of crazy. He blinks hard, ducking his head so she won't see the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Audrey tells him. "I know it's hard, but eventually you'll see that no one is doing this to hurt you. Quite the contrary."

He leans back, closes his eyes, wants to scream at her to just leave him alone. "My head hurts," he mutters instead. It's not a lie, the throb behind his eyes beating in time with his pulse, but it's convenient, too.

"You want me to fetch Dr. Shaw?" she asks, laying a hand over his. He nods, tries to get his breath to stop hitching. Dad would tell him to suck it up, keep up his front with a stranger, and Dean would be right there with a joke and a distraction, making him laugh even though he feels crummy, but he's all alone now and he has to scrub at his eyes with the back of his wrist. All he wants is to curl into a ball and wait for this all to go away. "All right, I'll get her," Audrey gets up, chair scraping across the cheap linoleum.

He watches her leave, heart thudding painfully in his chest. It's a nightmare, and nothing he does can wake him up. Dad and Dean are gone, barred from seeing him by well-meaning busybodies, and for all he knows they've blown town by now. There are still things out there that need hunting, things killing people by the dozen, and there's no reason for them to stay anymore, not if the State is interfering. It's always been Dad's worry, to attract unwanted attention from the authorities, and now Sam's gone and screwed everything up, as usual. Well, he tells himself, if there's anything he learned from his father, it's that he needs to step up to the plate and own his mistakes. If this is how it has to be, he'll make it work, at least until he's figured some things out. Maybe he can still find a way out of this, if only he can get his head to stop hurting and his thoughts to stop swirling in his head.

Sam scrubs at his face some more, wiping the tears off his cheeks. He'll be damned if they're going to see him cry over this. He settles back on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position to lie in, and squeezes his eyes shut. By the time the doctor comes back, he's asleep again.

They let Dean in to see him, after what feels like forever. He opens his eyes to find his brother standing next to his bed, watching him. He lets out a choked cry and pushes himself off the bed, hindered by his IV and the guard rail, and the next thing he knows he's gathered up in Dean's arms, crying so hard he thinks he might die, coughing and choking between sobs.

"They wouldn't let me see you..." he manages.

Dean just holds onto him, fingers digging into his back, and lets him cry. Sam doesn't know how long it's been, but it feels like he hasn't been safe in years, and he clings to Dean, to the smell of his brother's cheap aftershave mixed in with the antiseptic hospital scent that seems to permeate everything around here, even the soft denim of Dean's favourite jeans jacket. Dean is warm and strong under his hands, heartbeat thumping comfortingly just beneath his ribcage where Sam is pressing his ear in order to listen. It's a good sound, regular and soothing, the same sound he's been listening to since they were little kids sharing a double bed in a dozen different motel rooms across the country.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy," Dean says, when Sam's exhausted himself and Dean's t-shirt has a wet spot from all of Sam's tears –for which he mercifully doesn't rib him. "I'm so sorry." He pulls back a bit, brushes Sam's hair back from his forehead, his face screwed up with worry. "You feeling better? They wouldn't let me in, said you were contagious, and then after... They said they'd have me banned from the hospital if I tried to get in. Are you okay?"

Sam nods, wiping his nose awkwardly on his wrist, his cannula already dislodged. "I want to go home," he says, and immediately starts coughing again, his own body betraying him.

Dean helps him readjust his cannula, rubs circles on his back until the coughing stops again, then glances back at the door . "Sammy, they're not going to let that happen. They, uh, they think maybe"

"They think Dad beats me," Sam finishes bitterly. "Because of this," he flicks a hand disdainfully at his cast. "And the other broken bones. They think I'm lying to cover for him. For both of you."

His brother rubs his hand over his mouth, a sure sign that he's worried and trying not to let on that he is. "It's all gotten fucked up," he says, his face a mask of misery. "I'm sorry, it's all my fault, but I had to bring you in. Christ, Sammy, you almost died..."

He shakes his head. "'s not your fault."

"They want to take you away from me. From us. They won't take my word for it, that Dad's not abusing us. They want to investigate, first."

That's when Sam realizes that there's a yellowing bruise still fading under Dean's left eye. "What happened to your face?"

Dean rolls his eyes and jabs him gently in the ribs. "Never mind my face. I could ask what happened to yours, too, except I know it's like that naturally."

"Dean..."

"Don't 'Dean' me. I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked. Did Dad do that?"

A shrug. "We kind of got into it, after... anyway. He didn't mean it, not like that. It's not like he set out to punch me or anything. It was stupid. I pushed, he pushed back, I tripped. So, yeah, technically he did it, but we were both mad."

Sam's head is starting to ache again, and he rests it in the palm of one hand, elbow on his knee. "Yeah. You walking around with a shiner isn't exactly going to convince CPS that he should be up for the father-of-the-year award." He rubs at his eyes with his free hand.

"Sammy? You okay?"

"Fine."

"You don't look fine. C'mon," Dean nudges him, trying to coax him back onto the bed. "Lie back down, okay? Your head hurt?"

"A little" he admits, and then immediately regrets it when Dean's expression turns even more anxious. "It's fine. I'm just tired." Instead of letting Dean push him back on the bed he leans forward, pressing his cheek back to Dean's chest.

"You're such a girl," Dean says, but he pulls him in closer, then manhandles the guard rail down so he can sit on the bed. "Come on, then."

He can't curl up the way he wants to, his cast and the damned IV getting in his way again, but he settles as comfortably as he can against his brother, twisting his fingers in the hem of Dean's t-shirt. "I'm sorry." His breath is already hitching again, and he buries his face against his brother's chest, as much for comfort as to hide the fact that he keeps crying like a damned girl. "I screwed everything up."

"Not your fault, Sammy. You don't have anything to be sorry for, okay?"

"What's going to happen to me?"

Dean ruffles his hair, more gently than usual. "There's going to be a hearing, but not right away. It has to be soon, though, that's the law around here. They're going to find somewhere —some people for you to live with in the meantime. Where you'll be taken care of."

"I could just stay with you," Sam protests weakly, even though he knows it's no good. That's not how these things ever work out. The foremost rule in Sam Winchester's life appears to be that he's never allowed to get anything he wants. It's confirmed when Dean shakes his head.

"They already put the kibosh on that. They don't trust me not to go back to Dad with you."

"Dad's never around anyway."

"Yeah, not exactly a convincing argument against parental neglect and abuse, there, kiddo."

"Why don't we just go, then? We've sneaked out of hospitals before."

Dean hugs him tighter. "We were using fake names, then. I had to give them your real name this time, and..." Sam hears his breath hitch in his chest, but only because he's got his ear pressed right up to Dean's heart. "And I won't risk it. God, you have no idea, do you? You were so sick when I brought you in, you couldn't even tell them your name They had to put you on a ventilator for days. Hell, you're still on oxygen. If you get sick again..." He shakes his head. "I won't do it. I have to make sure you're taken care of. That's my job, right? So that means we stick to the system, at least until we're sure you're out of the woods."

"But I feel fine," he can hear the whine creep into his voice again, and wishes he didn't turn into a complete baby around his brother every time he doesn't feel good. He's lying through his teeth, of course: his head is throbbing and his chest still feels funny, and all his muscles ache mercilessly, but he won't admit it front of Dean, not without a fight. "I just want to go home."

"I know," Dean doesn't even call him on the whining. "I know, Sammy. I promise, I promise that you'll be home by the end of this. I promise."

Sam lets his eyes close. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Dean."

Sam spends a lot of time sleeping after that, unable to stay awake in spite of his best efforts. He is getting better, slowly but surely. He still spends a lot of his waking hours sore and coughing, but even he can tell he's improving. They don't let Dean in to see him much, and sometimes Sam thinks he must sleep through some of his visits, because there's always something left behind that wasn't there before. It's always small, stupid things: once it's a matchbox car, another time it's a plastic egg full of silly putty, and once it's a weird little guy with pipe-cleaner arms and crazy googly eyes. He laughs when he sees that one, but it only brings home the fact that Dean isn't there, that no one is there except nurses in hospital scrubs with cute animal prints because he's still in the children's ward, and then he has to swallow the lump in his throat, curling back up on the bed and trying very hard not to cry again, because it just makes him cough and his head hurt.

He doesn't talk much to anyone who comes in, apart from Dean. For one, he mostly still feels so damned sick that he doesn't feel much like talking. All his time awake is spent either coughing or halfway curled up on his bed, hampered by the cast, trying to find a position that doesn't make his head ache. Eventually, though, he starts feeling better, well enough to sit up for longer than a few minutes and even to switch on the crappy television in the room which shows nothing but daytime soaps and talk shows. Sometimes in the evening there are reruns of _Matlock_, and a couple of slightly better shows, but by then he's usually too tired to stay awake, pulled under by his medication and exhaustion combined.

Everyone is nice to him. Somehow, that just makes the whole situation worse, because it would be so much easier to hate them all if they were mean. Even the stupid social worker who trapped him into saying all that stuff on the first day is nice to him. She doesn't know what she's talking about, but she's nice to him and doesn't treat him like he's a retard or like he's five. Her name is Audrey, and she explains exactly how the system works and what's going to happen, talking to him like he's just a regular person, and try as he might he can't bring himself to ignore her.

"Normally we'd put you in a receiving home until we found a family for you," she tells him after a week has gone by, "but we got lucky this time, since we had time to look while you were here. Dr. Shaw says you're well enough to be discharged, so tomorrow you and I are going to go back to your apartment to get your clothes and anything else you want to take with you."

"Will my dad and Dean be there?" Sam stares at his hands, clenched in his lap.

"Your brother can come if you want, but I'm afraid your father won't be allowed. Not just yet, anyway."

"When can I see him?"

She sighs. "We're still investigating. We can see about letting him talk to you on the phone, see if that works out. But not just yet, okay?"

He nods, twists his hands together. "He's not abusive."

"I know you don't think he is, Sam, but that's not how this works. He's your father, you love him, and that's truly wonderful," she says, and it's all the more awful because he can tell she means it. "But sometimes love can blind us to people's faults. You may just have been living with this so long that your judgement is skewed. You understand that, right?"

"I understand. But you're wrong."

She gives his arm a pat. "I really, really hope you're right about that."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II**

It's harder than he thought, leaving the hospital. While he was still there, safe inside the dubious protection of its green walls, he could pretend that none of it was truly real. That any minute now Dean was going to come fetch him and bring him outside where Dad would be waiting for them in the Impala, impatient to be on the road again. Now, though, he's being pushed through the sliding glass doors in a wheelchair, wearing the faded pair of jeans and the white t-shirt Dean had pulled over his head before rushing him directly to the hospital. He doesn't even have socks, although Dean did apparently bring his sneakers at some point. Or one sneaker, anyway, since it's not like he can wear the other one.

He hoists himself gingerly into the passenger seat of Audrey's car, and lets her put his crutches in the back seat for him, hardly able to believe how tired he is after just this one simple thing. He doesn't know how he's going to manage the stairs up to the apartment, or carry his duffel bag out, without face-planting down the stairs again. He supposes he'll cross that bridge when he gets there.

Audrey somehow managed to get hold of a key to the apartment —maybe borrowed from Dean, or maybe she just got it from the landlord. She waits patiently while he struggles with his crutches, stumbling up one step at a time. He's hot and sweaty by the time they get to the front door, breathing hard and trying desperately not to cough, because he's pretty sure if he starts he'll never be able to stop. He's about ready to drop on the nearest horizontal surface and simply go to sleep, but he knows that's not on the books, not right now, anyway.

"Which is your room, Sam?"

There's only one bedroom, with the bed he shares with Dean, but he figures that if he doesn't point that out she might not notice that there's only one bedroom for a place where three people are supposed to be living. He leads the way, but steps aside at the last minute so she can go in ahead of him. At least the place is clean, he thinks. He and Dean have always kept their places tidy enough –Dad drilled it into them from a young age, and knowing where all your stuff is means that you don't lose anything or leave it behind accidentally when you have to bug out of town because the authorities are about to catch up with you for credit card fraud or expired insurance. So at the very least Audrey isn't going to think they live in squalor or something.

"Do you have a suitcase?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "Duffel bag. It's in the closet." He moves to get it, but she waves him down and goes to fetch it herself. She pauses when she sees both bags there, and for a heart-stopping moment he thinks that maybe she's seen all the weapons they keep as well, even though he knows well enough that Dad and Dean would have made sure to pack all that up in the Impala before her visit.

"Is this it, or is it the other one?" She lifts his duffel, and he realizes that her hesitation was due to the fact that she couldn't tell his bag apart from Dean's.

"That's it."

It takes ten minutes to pack his clothes, school books and toiletries. They've always travelled light, and without having to make sure the weapons are safely packed, it takes even less time than usual. If Audrey's surprised by how few things he owns, she doesn't say a word, merely purses her lips and packs his belongings in silence. She smiles when he protests at her shouldering his bag.

"It's fine. It's not heavy, and you're going to need both hands and all your balance to go back down the stairs. You want something to drink before we go?"

He shakes his head. His wallet is on the nightstand next to the bed, so he pockets it, then pushes himself painfully to his feet. His head is already starting to ache again, and his chest hurts from the exertion. "Let's just go."

"All right."

They leave in silence, which lasts until she pulls up in front of a small white house with a well-kept lawn, and she turns to face him.

"I know how hard all this is, but I promise, it's not all as bad as it seems."

He shrugs, and she sighs.

"Okay, come on, and I'll introduce you."

A good-looking woman who looks about Dad's age answers the door. She's dressed in brown slacks and a beige t-shirt under one of those pale blue cardigan sweaters, with a necklace made of silver and turquoise hanging just past her collarbone. Her blond hair is loose but has obviously been recently trimmed into an attractive blunt cut, and her nails are short but well-cared-for. Well-put-together, is the expression that fits, he thinks, he heard one of his teachers use it once to describe someone's mother. He licks his lips nervously as she ushers them inside with a smile that's warm and entirely open. Audrey introduces her as Mrs. Mary Williams, and doesn't seem to notice when Sam flinches.

The only times Sam has ever found himself in a living room that looked like the one he's currently in were either when he was helping his father on a case, watching him interviewing witnesses because Dad thought it was important he learn the techniques as soon as possible, or on the rare occasions that they stayed in one place long enough for him to make a friend or two who would invite him over to their houses. Otherwise, living rooms furnished with matching furniture and with curtains that weren't ripped or completely missing, with picture frames and art on the walls and more pictures on the mantelpiece, feel a bit like a foreign country.

"Please call me Mary," Mrs. Williams smiles at Sam, and he feels something twist painfully in his chest. She doesn't appear to have noticed, though, and keeps talking. "Otherwise I'll feel positively ancient, or at the very least like a schoolteacher. Come on in, and have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink, Audrey?" She looks at Sam too, a moment later, but he thinks his tongue may have actually cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He doesn't move. When Audrey accepts, she gives a cheerful nod. "I've got lemonade. Hang on just a moment," she says, and disappears, presumably into the kitchen.

Sam shifts uncomfortably on his crutches, and still doesn't move even when Audrey takes a seat in an armchair.

"Sit down, Sam," Audrey tells him, not unkindly. "No one's going to punish you for sitting."

"Her name's Mary?"

"Yes, that's right. I forgot I didn't tell you the names of your foster parents. Why do you ask?"

He's saved from having to answer when Mary returns with a tray and three glasses of lemonade. She pauses briefly when she sees Sam still standing, leaning heavily on his crutches, but she puts down the tray and takes a seat on the sofa after handing a glass to Audrey and taking one for herself.

"You can sit anywhere you'd like, sweetie," she says. "No need to stand on ceremony here."

He's just attracting attention like this, and that's the last thing he should be doing. He shuffles awkwardly to the nearest chair, a straight-backed wooden one that looks like he won't have too much trouble getting up from again later, even if it's not as comfortable as the armchairs or the sofa. Mary waits until he's carefully laid his crutches down by his feet, trying to tuck them out of the way, then hands him the last glass of lemonade.

"Audrey's probably already told you most of how this works, right Sam?"

He nods. "Yes, ma'am," he manages, remembering his manners at last, and she smiles. She's pretty, he thinks, and for a traitorous moment he wonders what it would be like to live here, in this nice house, with her. The lemonade is delicious and cool, not overly sweet, and goes a long way to helping his headache and to quelling the cough that keeps trying to bubble its way out of his chest.

"We've got two other kids living here right now, although they're much younger than you," she continues. "There are a few rules while you're here, but nothing you won't be able to handle. We'll go over all of that when you're settled in. My husband Alan is going to be home from work later this evening, and you'll be able to meet him then. He's looking forward to meeting you," she adds. "It's been a while since we had a young man your age in the house. Our youngest son is in college now," she explains, and he mentally readjusts her age to slightly older than Dad.

She's looking at him, and he thinks maybe she expects him to say something now, and he drops his gaze, twists his hands in his lap, and wishes he was anywhere but here.

"Sam..." He looks up quickly to find her still looking at him. "I know you feel put on the spot, but I promise that's not what I'm trying to do. Do you want to go put your bag in your room while I talk to Audrey for a few minutes?"

"Room?" he repeats stupidly.

"Yes, your room. You get the ground floor bedroom at the back of the house, so you don't have to go up and down the stairs while you've still got your cast on. There's a bathroom, too. You can think of it sort of like your own little private suite, except for the fact that my husband uses that bathroom in the morning because the other one gets pretty crowded sometimes," she says with a wink that he thinks is meant to put him at ease. It doesn't work. "Just go down the hall and through the kitchen, and the room's just back there. Can you manage?"

He nods, and hurriedly picks up his crutches, glancing at Audrey, who nods encouragingly. It's a little harder to navigate with his duffel slung over one shoulder, but he does manage, going through a brightly-lit, clean kitchen and through to what does, in fact, look like a neatly kept guest area. The room is small but neat, with a twin bed up against one wall, a dresser with three drawers that doubles as a night table, and a desk with a lamp screwed to its side. The window looks onto the house next door and a small patch of lawn covered in small white flowers.

Sam pulls open the bottom drawer and quickly unpacks his duffel before shoving it under the bed, then sits for a moment, wondering if he's supposed to go back into the living room or wait here for someone to come get him. He rubs his forehead, the throbbing returning in full force, and wishes he had some Advil or something. This is just the result of being overtired, he thinks, but it still feels shitty. He should go back out there, and try to be polite, but his head is pounding, his chest feels tight, and his cast feels like it weighs three tons. He'll just close his eyes for a minute or two, he tells himself, lying down on the bed. Just until the worst is past. Then he'll go and talk to the woman with the same name as his mother and find out what her rules are, figure out just how he's going to manage all this until Dad and Dean come up with a way to fix this mess. Just a minute or two, and he'll be ready.

"Hey, wake up!"

Sam is jolted out of a dream that vanishes almost instantly by the sound of a small, slightly shrill voice right next to his ear. He opens his eyes to find himself staring at a little boy of about nine or ten with a shock of tangled brown hair and a slight scowl on his face.

"Wha'?" is the best he can manage, before his lungs spasm and he folds over on himself coughing.

"Mary says you have to wake up and come to dinner," the boy says when he's got himself under control.

He glances down, and realizes that at some point someone must have come in, because a blanket has been laid over him and pulled up over his shoulders. The clock radio on the dresser tells him it's a few minutes before six o'clock. The boy huffs impatiently.

"Are you coming, or what? Dinner's in five minutes."

"I'm coming," he mumbles, fighting to extricate himself from the blanket while still not quite fully awake. His mouth feels like it's coated in something unpleasant, and his head is fuzzy, but it doesn't hurt, and even his chest doesn't feel all that tight anymore, which he figures is a plus. He wonders if he has time to brush his teeth, or maybe at least his hair, and then realizes he has no idea who this kid is.

"What's your name?"

"Donnie."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Sam."

"I know that. So should I tell Mary you're coming?"

"Uh, yeah. Thanks."

Donnie doesn't bother to acknowledge the thanks, just trots back toward the kitchen, hollering at the top of his lungs that Sam's awake and that he's coming. Sam winces, and wonders if he and Dean were that loud at Donnie's age. He uses the dresser to pull himself to his feet, rescues his toiletry bag and fumbles with it a bit until he figures out a way to carry it while both hands are busy with the crutches, and slips into the small bathroom across the narrow hallway. He looks kind of terrible, he thinks, when he sees himself in the mirror: sallow-skinned and puffy-eyed, and his hair is plastered to his face on one side and sticking out on the other.

He brushes his teeth first, getting rid of the nasty taste in his mouth, then does a passable job of making his hair behave. There's not much he can do about how he looks otherwise, but he suspects that probably no one else really cares about that. Dean would care, of course, and maybe force him to go back to bed for a while, but Dean isn't here. He has to swallow a sudden lump in his throat, blinking hard. He's not going to cry in front of these people.

There's a little girl sitting at the kitchen table with Donnie when he gets there, and an older man that he guesses must be Mary's husband standing near the counter, rummaging through one of the kitchen cabinets. Mary herself is at the stove, and she turns to him with another smile.

"Hi Sam. Did you sleep well?"

He stops in his tracks, uncertain of how this is meant to work. He doesn't remember the last time he ate a meal with both Dad and Dean at the same time and at the table. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

"You really can call me Mary, Sam."

He shakes his head. "I, uh... I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you. Please."

She seems perplexed and maybe a little hurt. "Okay, if that's what you want."

Not five minutes in and he's already screwed this up. He takes a breath, swallows. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I just... my mother's name was Mary. It's just... it's weird," he says lamely.

"It's okay, Sam," Mary says softly. "You really don't have to explain yourself to me."

Sam ducks his head, not wanting to see what sort of expression he's put on her face, finds himself wishing Dean was here for the second time in fifteen minutes. Dean's always been better with people than him.

"Okay, let's have some formal introductions," Mary says briskly, and the tension drains from the room. "This is my husband Alan, I think you've already met Donnie, and that little imp pretending to be an angel sitting at the table is Lorraine."

"Hi!" the girl says brightly, just as Alan steps forward, extending a hand, which Sam shakes firmly after shifting his crutches around a bit.

"Good to meet you, Sam." Alan looks older than his wife, with neatly trimmed silver hair, dressed in business attire that makes him look like he's probably an accounts' manager in some medium-sized firm. Maybe insurance, Sam thinks, by the looks of him. Sometimes looks can be deceiving, though, so he figures he'll ask about it later.

"Thank you, sir. Likewise."

Alan looks amused. "Rare that someone your age has such good manners."

Sam shrugs, drops his gaze to the floor. "Never thought about it, sir."

"Why don't you take a seat," Mary motions to the table. "We've got spaghetti and meat sauce and broccoli."

Donnie makes a face. "Broccoli. Yuck."

Sam spares him a glance, remembering Dean telling him not to whine because there weren't any vegetables. Broccoli's a luxury in their household, mostly because they're never in one place long enough to buy it, or because it goes bad too quickly. Dean tends to focus on grains and starches when he buys groceries, and loads Sam up with apples so he can get some vitamins in him. Broccoli's a waste, as far as Dean is concerned, not because he doesn't like it, but because it's an impractical vegetable. Canned peas make more sense, are cheaper, last longer, and can be taken with you if you haven't opened the can before you leave.

Mary hands him a plate of spaghetti, then passes him a steaming dish of broccoli. "Help yourself, Sam. Is that enough spaghetti for you?"

"Yes, ma'am." He gauges the number of people at the table, tries to take only enough broccoli for himself to leave some for the others.

"There's plenty for seconds if you want."

He nods, ducks his head, and wonders if this is the kind of family that says grace before dinner, like at that really awkward Thanksgiving a couple of years ago. Luckily, they don't seem the type, though he notices Alan is waiting for his wife to start eating before picking up his own fork, so Sam follows suit, feeling awkward and out of place. He has to think about his table manners —hold your fork properly, don't slouch, elbows off the table. Dad taught him when he was young, and reminded him periodically, but Dean doesn't care as long as neither of them is starving.

Around him the conversation picks up, Mary asking the kids about their day, and both Donnie and Lorraine turn out to be talkative. Donnie complains about his math teacher, and Lorraine recounts something about an art project in kindergarten that's sounds about as complex as it is incomprehensible, but Mary seems to follow along well enough. Then again, she's had plenty of practice, Sam thinks.

"What grade are you in?" Donnie asks him abruptly, and Lorraine rolls her eyes.

"He's too old for school, Donnie," she says, as though Sam is a hundred years old. He remembers being that age and thinking that anyone over ten years old was huge and ancient, and bites the inside of his lip in order not to smile and hurt her feelings. Donnie, however, has no such qualms.

"He is not, dummy. He has to go to high school."

"I'm not a dummy! You take that back!"

Mary hushes them. "Donnie, you know the rule about name-calling in this house. Besides, Sam's in the ninth grade, isn't that right Sam?"

"That's right."

"How do you like it?" she prompts, and he wishes the floor would open up and swallow him, right now, please and thank you. He doesn't want to talk about school or anything else.

"It's fine."

Alan snorts. "I forgot what having teenagers was like," he comments, and Sam stiffens. He's being rude, and that's going to draw attention, and then he'll never get to go back to Dad and Dean.

"Sorry, sir, I didn't mean it like that. I like school," he adds. It's true, he does like school, but he also figures it'll look better if he says so. He racks his brain for something to say. "Um, I'm pretty good at math," he adds.

"I didn't mean anything by it, Sam. No need to feel put on the spot." Alan reaches over and claps him on the shoulder, and Sam tries not to flinch too hard at the uninvited contact. He sees Mary narrow her eyes at her husband and shake her head slightly, and Alan withdraws his hand, his expression a little contrite, Sam thinks. It's because they think Dad beats him, he realizes, and suddenly his stomach performs a flip-flop. No touching the abused kid without his permission. He stares down at his plate and concentrates on finishing his food, ignoring the pitying looks he's getting from two people who don't know what the hell they're talking about, anyway.

When dinner is over, an excruciating twenty minutes later, he moves awkwardly to help clear the table, using only one crutch to help him move around the kitchen. Mary gives him an approving look.

"We generally let the kids take turns with the dishes. This week is Donnie's week, and Lorraine will help to dry, and next week I think you'll probably be up to the task, don't you?"

He nods, and ignores the baleful glare he gets from Donnie, who clearly views dishes as the world's worst form of punishment. Once the table is clear and wiped down he retrieves his crutch gratefully, his arms shaking from the strain, and fishes around in his mind until he comes up with a polite request to be excused.

"Of course. I bet you're exhausted, it's been a long day. You just yell if you need anything, all right?"

"Sure. Thanks," he mumbles, already halfway through the door.

He manages not to stumble on his way to the bedroom, shucks his clothes as soon as the door is safely shut behind him, and does a half-hearted job of folding them and dropping them on the wooden chair by the desk before crawling under the bedclothes in only his boxers, letting his crutches fall to the floor with a muffled clatter. Seconds after his head has hit the pillow, he's asleep.

It's surprisingly easy to settle into the Williams' household. Sam thinks there might be some sort of class or something, Dealing With Traumatized Teens 101, because Alan and Mary are warm and supportive and mostly non-invasive with him. He's still unable to get through even a single morning without feeling exhausted, but no one objects to his taking naps or just lying quietly on his bed with a book, trying to catch up on the schoolwork he's missed. Most of the time he just ends up falling asleep over his books, and invariably when he wakes up the book has been taken away and put aside, complete with bookmark, and a blanket spread over his legs. If he didn't know better, he'd find it creepy.

They still won't let him see or even talk to his dad, but Dean calls a few times, although there's painfully little news on either side.

"So the family's nice?" Dean wants to know.

"Sure. They're okay. Almost too good to be true."

"What do you mean?" Dean asks sharply, and Sam realizes that he's just said the wrong thing. "Something up with them? Like, our kind of something?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, shifts the telephone a bit so it's resting more comfortably between his shoulder and ear, then puts his hand over the mouthpiece to cough without deafening his brother. "No, not like that. It's just... they're really normal."

"You sure? Because I can check them out, ask around..."

Sam sighs. "I don't think so. Look, if I think there's something really wrong, I promise I'll tell you, okay?"

Dean isn't mollified. "Fine," he says grudgingly. "But the minute you think something's up, I want to be the first to know, okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

"You're feeling okay, too? No headaches?"

He shrugs, even though he knows Dean can't see him, then glances around to make sure Mary isn't around, eavesdropping or something. He should have checked before, he thinks. "Nothing bad. I'm just tired a lot. At least I've stopped coughing all the damned time. They think I might be able to go back to school as soon as next week, if I'm feeling up to it. There's only a few weeks left before the end of the school year."

"Don't rush it, Sammy." He can practically see Dean pacing in their tiny kitchen, rubbing a hand over his mouth, pacing with the phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder. "No one's going to mind if you miss a bit more school. You just make sure you get better, okay?"

"It's Sam, and I'm not rushing it," he says, maybe a little more shortly than he intended. "I've already missed so much school I'll probably end up having to take this whole year over again. If I'm lucky maybe they'll let me take my finals."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, your four-point-oh GPA is a testament to how badly you're failing all your classes. Look, Sammy –Sam," he amends, in an obvious attempt to keep the peace. "I'm sure your teachers can give you some make-up work to do at home until you're recovered enough to go back. Although why you'd want to do that when you can lie on the couch and watch soaps all day long is beyond me–"

"Dude, not everyone is obsessed with _General Hospital_, okay?"

"Come on, the nurses are hot!"

"Deeeeean..." Sam groans.

"They are. Anyway, I mean it. You want me to go to your school and talk to your teachers?"

"Why can't Dad do it?" He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, and it's only confirmed when Dean stays silent. "He left, didn't he? He found a hunt!"

"It's just a quick hunt," Dean says after a moment's hesitation, as though he doesn't believe his own words. "A few days, tops, and he's got his cell phone with him, just in case of an emergency. It'll be fine, I promise."

"You always say that," Sam blinks hard, trying not to feel as though he's being stabbed through the chest. His voice breaks in spite of himself, and he angrily cuffs tears from his eyes with the back of his wrist. He's not going to cry over this like a baby. "Why didn't you go with him, anyway?" he asks, and he knows he's being deliberately cruel, and he doesn't care.

"Well, someone's got to watch out for you, dork-face."

"The State appointed someone for that," Sam says nastily. "You could have gone with him on his hunt, since I'm not in the way anymore, slowing you down."

"Don't be a brat, Sammy."

"I'm not! I don't see why I'm a brat because I want Dad to give a damn about me. Why is that so bad, huh?"

"What do you want from me?" Dean sounds tired, suddenly. "You want assurances that you're the prettiest princess in the family? I'm not Mr. Rogers, Sam. Dad's work is important, you know that. There are people dying out there."

"Great. So it matters when other people are dying. Funny how it didn't seem to matter when I was the one in the hospital," he says bitterly.

"Dad came back as soon as I called him. You weren't there."

"No, I wasn't. I was busy being in a coma. And he couldn't wait to get away again. Couldn't move fast enough, could he?" He scrubs at his eyes some more, but the tears are coming hot and fast and thick, and he swallows a hiccup, because apparently even if he doesn't want to cry like a baby, his body has other ideas on the subject. "You know what? Never mind. It doesn't matter. I gotta go, anyway. Mrs. Williams needs to use the phone," he lies.

"Sam, wait–"

"Bye, Dean. If Dad asks, tell him I said hi."

He hangs up, forces himself to take deep breaths, because if any of the Williamses catches him crying, or one of the kids, he's never going to hear the end of it. After a couple of minutes he gets it under control, wipes his eyes with his fingers again to make sure all traces of tears are gone, and hoists himself back onto his crutches. He's just going to go lie down, he thinks, get rid of the stupid headache that's trying to build behind his eyes again.

"Sam?"

He pauses mid-way through the kitchen, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It's Mrs. Williams. Mary, he reminds himself.

"Are you all right?" she asks, and he nods briefly, not meeting her eyes.

"Fine. I'm fine, thank you."

"Are you sure? I thought you were talking with your brother."

He closes his eyes briefly. "He had to go. I'll talk to him some other time."

"Did he say anything to upset you?"

Warning bells go off in Sam's mind. This is another trick question. If he says yes, they might not let him talk to Dean ever again, and he doesn't think he can handle that, even if Dean only thinks of him as a useless, whiny pain in the ass. He hates needing his family when they obviously don't need him, but there's nothing he can do about it.

"No, I'm fine. I'm just a little tired. Maybe I overdid it a little," he offers diffidently. "Is it okay if I go lie down for a while?"

"Of course, sweetie." She hesitates, though. "You know, Sam, it's all right if you're upset. I have a brother too, and sometimes we all say things we don't mean and hurt each other's feelings. It doesn't mean we love each other any less."

"I know that." He's sick and tired of crying, doesn't want to break down in front of her. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.

"All right. I just wanted to make sure."

"Yeah, thanks."

Lying down doesn't help. He buries his face in his pillow and just barely manages not to cry, pressing his fingers so hard against his eyes that he sees coloured spots like residual retinal imprints behind his eyelids. His nose is stuffed up, which makes sleeping impossible, and he keeps replaying his conversation with Dean over and over in his mind, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. It's not Dean's fault if Dad left, after all. Even if Dad doesn't care what happens to him, Dean does, and the idea of spending the next three years in the homes of strangers isn't something Sam wants to contemplate. After three years, Dad and Dean will be long gone, maybe impossible to track down, and there's no guarantee they'd take him back even if he did find them. Of course, the nagging voice at the back of his mind says, it's possible Dad is only too happy to offload him now. He's been going on for years now about how Sam should be more like his brother, get his nose out of his books and get his head in the game. Maybe, the little voice suggests slyly, Dad would be happier just to keep going with his good son, and leave the screw-up son behind to become someone else's problem.

Sam's almost grateful to have his thoughts interrupted when Donnie barges into his room and pokes him sharply in the shoulder. He starts violently, making his head throb, then sits up gingerly.

"What?"

Donnie is looking at him hopefully. "School's out, and I did all my homework, and there's nothing to do. Wanna play a game?"

There are very few things Sam wants to do less than play a game with a kid five years his junior, but this isn't his house, and he figures it's probably the least he can do to keep Donnie out of mischief for a while. Besides, maybe it's karma, he reasons. Dean had to look out for him for years, so maybe it's his turn now. Look out for a little kid for a while, return the favour to the universe or something.

"What did you have in mind?"

"I have a Lego set," Donnie offers, and it doesn't sound half-bad. Playing with Lego is quiet. He and Dean had a mismatched set that they played with and kept with them right up until Sam turned thirteen. That's when Dad declared that he was too old for toys, that the small box took up valuable room in the Impala's trunk, and insisted they leave it at a Salvation Army store back in Indiana in spite of Sam's protests. It

"Yeah, okay. Where is it?"

"Mary said we could use the living room if we clean up the Legos when we're done."

The living room feels like it's five miles away, but Sam nods, pushes himself to his feet, and makes his way slowly through the kitchen, past the telephone —resolutely not looking at it— and sees that Donnie has already dumped all his Legos onto the floor, presumably for the purposes of easier access. The kid drops onto all fours.

"My dad and me once built a whole city with cars and skyscrapers and stuff," he tells Sam. "It was really cool and some of the buildings were so tall you couldn't even see over them. You had to be, like, Superman, and be able to leap over them with superpowers and stuff."

Sam lowers himself to the floor, stretching out his broken leg and tucking the other one under him. "Is that so?"

Little kids need to be humoured, is about the only thing he knows. Sam's always been a lousy babysitter. It's just Dean who had the magic touch with little ones, even when they were younger. When he wasn't helping Dad on his hunts or trying to be extra cool or whatever it is Dean did when he was cutting class, Dean sometimes got babysitting gigs after school. Sam never figured out how he charmed his way past all those parents, but the fact remained that even the most recalcitrant, sullen kids became putty in Dean's hands. He never had arguments about bedtimes or whether or not vegetables were going to get eaten, and kids always begged to have him come back. Of course, they were usually about to leave town by then, but then Dean was probably accustomed to leaving heartbreak in his wake.

Donnie doesn't seem to mind Sam's lack of babysitting skills, though, and he prattles on about the city he and his dad built, and what he and Sam should be doing now. Sam is perfectly content to take instructions about what he's meant to be doing. His head still hurts, worse than before, and he doesn't really feel like trying to come up with ideas of his own. There's still a piece of his old Lego set jammed into one of the Impala's vents. Sometimes they can still hear it rattling around, much to his Dad's annoyance. He sits quietly, fitting piece after piece together.

"So you play Legos with your father, huh?" he says when Donnie pauses to take a breath.

"I used to. He threw most of them out because I was bad."

Sam looks up, startled. "He what?"

Donnie shrugs, starts assembling a car, fitting wheels to the base. "He was mad, because I left them out and he stepped on them. He told me if I left them out he'd throw them out."

Sam crinkles his nose. "My Dad gave mine away when I was thirteen," he says, and Donnie gives him a commiserating nod. "Your dad gets mad a lot, huh?"

"Only when he drinks. He doesn't mean it."

Sam feels a little sick, wonders what else Donnie's dad has done that he 'didn't mean.' "What kind of car are you going to make?"

"A Mazzerati. A red one, and then we can have drag races."

Sam snorts softly. "Drag races. Right."

"They're fun!"

"Only until someone crashes their car and dies in a fireball."

Donnie looks perplexed. "What?"

"Never mind. It's not important, anyway."

Sam rubs at his forehead. The headache that's been threatening all day is flaring up now, throbbing behind his eyes, and even the pale light streaming in through the window is making him blink painfully. Donnie seems content to play without Sam's input, though, apparently wanting him there mostly so he doesn't have to play all by himself. Sam supposes he can understand that. Playing by yourself is the worst feeling in the world, and Lorraine isn't a great playmate for a boy Donnie's age. He just has enough time to wonder where the little girl has got to when she trails into the living room, her middle and ring fingers stuck firmly in her mouth. She's wearing a faded red dress with pink socks, and her braids have come undone. She flops next to Donnie on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Donnie informs her sternly.

"Nuh-uh, you're playing. I want to play too!"

"Well, you can't. Me and Sam are doing stuff that's too complicated for babies."

"I'm not a baby! You take that back!" Lorraine shrieks, and Sam cringes, stomach churning as the sound pierces right through his brain.

"Lorraine," he says sharply, "don't scream inside the house. Didn't Mary tell you about using your inside voice?"

"I'm not a baby!" she says hotly, but mercifully more quietly than before. Dean was always better at dealing with screeching little girls, always knew the right thing to say to make them be quiet and cooperate. Sam remembers seeing him break up squabbles and redistribute dolls as necessary, and even coordinate a tea party on one notable occasion.

"Okay, no, you're not a baby. You're obviously a big girl, and only babies scream inside the house, because they don't know any better," Sam swallows a mouthful of saliva, rubs at his eyes. "Donnie, Lorraine can, uh..." he racks his brain, trying to remember how Dean used to sort out these disputes. "Lorraine can be your assistant. How about that? Lorraine, you think you can help?"

"I can help."

"But–"

"Donnie, let her help. Give her a house to build, or something."

"Fine." The victory comes in the form of sulking, but Sam will take what he can get. He wishes Dean was here.

"Can there be a family in my house? There should be a mommy and a daddy and a dog."

Sam forces a smile. "That sounds nice." He hands her a little green platform. "Why don't you start with this? It can be the lawn around the house."

She takes it from him without hesitation, and he looks down at the pile of blocks in his lap, can't remember for the life of him what he was trying to build. He closes his eyes, tries to block out the light, but it's coming right through his eyelids, right through his fingers when he puts a hand over his eyes.

"Sam?"

He should say something to reassure Donnie, but he can't. He swallows thickly, fumbles for his crutches. "I, uh. Bathroom," he manages, pushes himself to his feet and nearly falls over from a sudden wave of dizziness. "I'll be right back."

Sam doesn't hear anything Donnie says after that. All he can think, all he can do is just concentrate on making his way to the tiny bathroom across the hall from his bedroom before he throws up. He can't be sick in Mary Williams' living room, not all over the nice carpet. He can't. His crutches almost slide out from under him in the kitchen, but he catches himself on a counter, rights himself, and manages to stagger the last few feet into the bathroom. He drops the crutches, just lets himself slide down against the wall next to the toilet and retches painfully, his still-tender ribs protesting the treatment, and tears sting in his eyes.

"Sam, you sick?" Donnie's voice is distorted, like Sam is underwater. "You want me to get Mary?"

He shakes his head, then whimpers when that simple movement ratchets the pain up another notch, brings up another mouthful of bile. He doesn't have anything left to vomit, but it doesn't prevent him from dry-heaving, half-crumpled on the floor, hanging onto the edge of the toilet to keep his balance. He's on his good knee, his other leg stretched to the side, and he knows he won't be able to hold himself up for long. He hasn't had a migraine in months, and not one this bad, not for a long time.

All he can think of is that he wants Dean. Dad isn't around most of the time, and Sam's mostly okay with that, because it's always been like that, just him and Dean. Dad took care of him a couple of times when he was sick, but it's usually Dean who's there whenever things get really bad. Dean who drags him into the bathroom before he pukes all over himself, Dean who pats his back and makes stupid jokes and pets his hair. Dean who figured out that a cold washcloth over the back of his neck helped the puking more than anything else in the whole world.

He doesn't even have his meds, he realizes. He and Audrey packed up all his belongings, but the foil packet with his tablets is still in the first aid kit, along with everything else, and Dad and Dean would have put the first aid kit in the car to hide it for the social worker's visit. It's why he didn't think of taking them with him at the time, and now it's too late. Now he's stuck in a house full of strangers in a bathroom that's to small for him to even fit, and Dean isn't there to make jokes about how one day he won't fit through the door to the motel rooms they stay in, and that when he outgrows the Impala they'll just hitch one of those trailers they use to cart horses around to the back so that Sam won't have to run to keep up with the car. Dean isn't here, he doesn't have his meds, and the whole place is just wrong. Tears slip down his face, drip off the end of his nose into the open toilet and all he wants is to curl up into a ball and die.

"Mary!" Donnie's voice comes from further away. "Mary you gotta come!"

The sounds coming from behind him are indistinct, muffled the way they sometimes get when things are bad. He thinks he can make out footsteps, the soft murmur of Mary's voice, and then Donnie's, high-pitched and easier to distinguish.

"I dunno. He said he was going to the bathroom, but he threw up and now he's crying!" he says, as though it's the most appalling thing in the world.

"Okay, Donnie," Mary's voice is a little louder now. "You go back and play in the living room with Lorraine, okay? I'm going to take care of Sam."

"What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know yet, but I'm going to find out. You go on, now. I'll come get you later."

Sam misses whatever happens next when he's racked by yet another bout of dry-heaves. He coughs and spits, his mouth and nose burning, eyes streaming.

"Sam?" He can't answer. If he does anything other than hang on to the toilet, he's going to fall over. "Sam, talk to me, sweetie. Why didn't you tell me you were feeling sick?"

Suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder, and it feels both reassuring and completely wrong, too small and too delicate, and the light from the fixture is bouncing off the tiles and searing right through his retinas, even with his eyes screwed shut.

"Sam, tell me what's wrong."

He chokes. "Head hurts."

Her hand comes off his shoulder, presses against his forehead. "You're a little warm. How badly does your head hurt? You have to tell me so I can help."

He tries to swallow the whimper that bubbles up from his chest. "I left my pills at home," he moans quietly. "I forgot. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to forget."

"What pills, Sam? You didn't mention anything other than what the hospital gave you." She won't stop talking, and her voice is wrong, too high-pitched and too soft, and he thinks he's going to be sick again.

"No." His arms are trembling with the strain of holding himself upright. "They're for the headaches. Migraines." He wouldn't have to explain himself if Dean were here.

"Oh, Sam," Mary strokes his head. "All right. I can't get that for you right this minute, but we need to try to fix this. Can you tell me what your medication is called?"

He can barely think, but somehow he manages to dredge up the name, and the effort just of trying to keep his thoughts together costs him the concentration he needed to hold himself up. He flails with one hand, grabs at the wall for support, and lets himself lean against it, trying to shield his eyes from the light with his arm.

"I want Dean." The words escape him before he can bite them back, and the sob that accompanies them is just an extra humiliation to cap it all off.

"Sam, sweetie, do you need me to take you to the hospital or a doctor? You look like you're in a lot of pain. You might be getting sick again."

"No." He wants to die. "No, I'm not sick."

"Are you sure? I'll call Alan, and we can be there in a few minutes. Come on," she pulls on him gently, until he sags in her arms. It hurts too much to fight her on this, and he lets her hold onto him, petting his hair. He's getting her blouse wet, he realizes, but even blinking hurts, never mind trying to pull away from her. "Come on, Sam, it's okay. Let me take care of this, just for a little while, all right?"

He's crying too hard to care now. "You're not my mother!"

She hugs him tighter. "I know, sweetie. But that doesn't mean I don't care."

Sam isn't sure how she manages it, but Mary gets her hands on his pills –or a new prescription, maybe– and reluctantly agrees to just let him stay in bed until it's over rather than take him back to the hospital. Donnie and Lorraine are summarily barred from the back of the house where Sam's room is, sternly ordered to keep their voices down while he's sick so as not to disturb him. It's not as bad, being in the dark, except that he's alone most of the time. It's like being back in the hospital, only with less of a regular schedule, and he feels Dean's absence like the throbbing ache of a missing limb. Only Mary comes in, moving quietly and checking on him with soft hands, wiping his face with a damp washcloth, and his guilt at how nice it feels makes his stomach twist. Finally, after what feels like forever, the pills gradually start to take effect, and he manages to sleep. When he wakens again, Mary is sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Sam, how are you feeling?"

He wants to snap at her that he's spent God only knows how long trying to sleep off a migraine, and that therefore he feels like he's been dragged behind a car for a while and then beaten with a backpack full of bricks. But the pain is receding, almost gone now, and she's been nice to him. Nicer than she has to be, even. It's not her fault that she doesn't understand.

"'m okay." He pushes himself carefully up on his elbows, squints at the digital display of his clock. It's a lot later than he thought, or maybe it's just early.

She pets his hair, and he's kind of ashamed of how nice it still feels. Safe. "I'm glad you're feeling better, but you can be honest with me, if you're still feeling sick."

"No, I'm better. I'm better, I swear. I'm just tired."

"Okay."

"Um, how long was I asleep?"

"Over a day. I talked to Dr. Shaw, and she said it was fine to let you sleep until you were feeling up to getting up again. Would you like something to eat?"

"Did Dean call?" He doesn't know how much time has passed, not really, and the idea of food makes him want to puke.

"Not today, but he did call yesterday while you were sleeping. He said he'd call back, but if you want you can try calling him now. It's still early enough that you probably won't wake him up. He doesn't go to bed early, does he?"

Sam snorts, and just that small sound threatens the precarious balance he's achieved. "No, Dean's a night owl. I'll call him in the morning, he won't be home now." He lowers himself carefully back onto the bed, eyelids already drooping.

"Does your brother go out a lot?"

He just wants to go back to sleep. "Sometimes."

"He leaves you alone with your Dad?"

"No. When Dad's home we stay together. It's not what you think."

"What do I think?"

"He doesn't hit me. No one hits me. It was just a stupid accident, and if I hadn't got sick none of this would be happening. It's not fair."

She sighs, and keeps stroking his hair. "You know, I get a lot of kids through here. You're old enough that you can probably figure out that most of them come from some pretty rough places. Just because someone loves you doesn't mean they'll always do the right thing. It's easy to rationalize some things away. Donnie says he told you about his father, how he only ever gets mad when he's had too much to drink, how he doesn't mean it. Donnie had a fractured skull when he first got here, but he's convinced his father is going to come any day now and take him home and rebuild that Lego city he loves so much."

"It's not the same." Dad doesn't hit him, he knows that much. Dad isn't abusive.

"Every situation is different, I know. But it doesn't mean yours isn't hard in its own way, that we shouldn't try to make it better. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

"Dad has a reason for doing what he does." But he can't muster much conviction. All he can think is that he's trotting out the same tired excuse that Dean gives him, over and over, and time and time again. Dad's work is important. Dad is out there saving people. It's the same argument he had with Dean had the last time they talked.

"Just because he has his reasons doesn't make it right for you."

"You're wrong. It's just complicated." He pulls his arms back over his head, deliberately turns away from her to face the wall. "I'm really tired, please let me go back to sleep."

"Okay," her voice is still gentle, and she squeezes his arm just below the shoulder. "Get some sleep. Things'll look better in the morning, Sam. They always do."


	3. Chapter 3

**Part III**

Dean doesn't call the next day, or the day after that. It's not really all that strange, Sam tells himself by the time breakfast rolls around on the third day. They're all trying to stay under the radar, and maybe Dean is just trying not to draw too much attention to them by calling too often.

It's strangely easy to fit into this household, Sam finds, even if it feels a little surreal. Dean would already have made about a dozen jokes about Stepford and white picket fences, but Sam likes it. If he's honest with himself, he thinks Dean might actually like it too. It's nice to sleep in a room that's actually meant for him, on a bed that hasn't been slept on by dozens of other people beforehand. His sheets smell of fabric softener instead of bleach, and he doesn't feel as though he has to keep his shoes on all the time so as not to pick up something off a filthy carpet or a damaged floor. Mary even gave him some hand-me-downs from one of her sons, and the clothes are a better fit and better quality than anything he's used to having. Mostly, though, it's nice to have a routine that doesn't involve research into monsters and training until his muscles are screaming and his head is spinning from the exertion. All that's expected of him is for him to eat his vegetables and help with the dishes, and to make his bed in the mornings.

On second thought, Dean would probably hate it.

Mary insists that Sam stay on the sofa for most of the day, in front of the television and with a pile of books so he doesn't get bored.

"I don't want you to feel as though we're locking you up in your room," she jokes lightly, setting down a pitcher of water and a glass on a tray on the coffee table and letting her hand linger on his shoulder for a just a fraction of a second. Sam resolutely doesn't think about how nice it feels. "Daytime television isn't great, but you can put in a videotape if you want. I've got some errands to run but I'll be home in the afternoon. If there's anything, Alan's number at work is on the fridge. I don't want you to hesitate to call him, okay Sam?"

Sam resists the urge to fidget under her earnest gaze. "Yeah, okay."

"I mean it."

He forces a smile. "I'll be fine."

"I know you will. This is just in case."

The television doesn't hold his interest for long, and Mary and Alan, for all their many other qualities, are clearly not fans of the same sorts of movies as his family. He shifts on the sofa, which is just a bit too short to let him lie down comfortably with his leg stretched out in its cast, and thinks longingly of the copy of _Die Hard_ that's likely still at the bottom of Dean's duffel bag. Donnie and Lorraine are in school and will be until three o'clock, and the whole house feels unnaturally quiet without anyone else in it. He flips through a couple of novels, but they don't succeed in capturing his attention any better than the television, and he dozes on and off for the better part of the morning until he ends up staring at the very clean ceiling of the Williams' living room.

It's hot outside, even though the air conditioning in the house makes it all but unnoticeable, and he wonders what Dean is doing, if he found an air-conditioned bar to hang out in, somewhere to hustle pool or find a game of poker, or if he's doing research for Dad in some dusty, sweltering library somewhere. Sam shouldn't call him, he knows that. Anyway, the likelihood of Dean's being home at this hour in a cramped apartment that has only a couple of crappy electric fans is pretty slim. Dad would have taken the cell phone with him, but Sam knows better than to try to call on that too. The Williams will definitely notice a long-distance charge on their phone bill. After trying unsuccessfully not to worry for another twenty minutes or so he gives it up as a bad job.

Sam is pleasantly surprised when he's able to sit up without feeling dizzy and without his head hurting at all. When it was obvious that using the old wooden underarm crutches was hurting his ribs, Mary arranged to have them replaced with metallic ones that clip around his forearms. It makes it easier to get around at least, especially now that he's no longer feeling quite so weak and overall crappy. He makes his way into the kitchen, carefully balanced on his crutches, barefoot in order to avoid slipping on the linoleum, then leans up against the counter next to where the phone is mounted on the wall. It's one of those new phones with a big greyish-green display screen, state-of-the-art, nothing Sam has ever had the opportunity to use. Some of the places he and his family have stayed in still have rotary dial phones. He tries the number for the apartment, tries to ignore the way his stomach twists when there's no answer. He doesn't bother with Dad's cell phone number, hits '0' and tells the operator he wants to make a collect call.

Pastor Jim never refuses to take Sam's calls, and the last time he called collect was when both Dad and Dean were injured on a hunt four years ago and he was too damned short to drive the Impala back to the motel. Sam figures this might not be all that different.

"Sam?"

He didn't realize how tense he was until he hears Pastor Jim's voice on the other end of the line and nearly bursts into tears. He's done enough crying for the past couple of weeks to last a lifetime, though, so he swallows hard. "Hi, Pastor Jim. I'm sorry to call like this, but I, uh... have you heard from my dad?"

"Not for a few days. What's happening? Has he not checked in with you and Dean?"

Sam swallows again. "He didn't tell you what happened? That CPS wants to take me away?"

There's a sharp intake of breath. "What? No. No, he didn't tell me. I would never have told him about the hunt if he had. Where are you, Sam? Tell me what's happening."

It's a surprisingly short story to tell, for all that it feels like it's been an eternity since things were the way they were supposed to be. Sam feels out of breath when he's done, though, wrung out like an overused dishcloth. "What was he hunting?"

"Sam..."

"No, Pastor Jim," he interrupts. "I can't —I need to know if something happened. Dean must have gone after him. What was the hunt?"

"It sounded like a straightforward enough haunting just outside Ashland," Pastor Jim says, and Sam can hear paper rustling as though he's rifling through his notes. "He said he though it might take a day or two at most from the sound of it. Look, Sam, I want you to stay put, all right? Let me call Bobby Singer and see if he has any news. You haven't heard from Dean in three days, you said?"

"Almost. He called once when I couldn't answer the phone, but there hasn't been anything since then."

"And you're sure they're not just lying low? Researching under assumed identities, maybe?"

"Dean would've found a way to call. The hearing with the judge is in a few days, and Dad has to be there or they'll put me in foster care permanently." Sam picks at the edge of the counter, not quite daring to voice aloud the tiny, treacherous thought that maybe his father left on purpose. Pastor Jim, however, appears to be able to read minds.

"Your father would never let that happen. I'm going to make some calls, find someone to check up on your brother and father, make sure they're all right and give them a lift back into town if they need one. Give me your number, and I will call you back as soon as I have any news, all right?"

"Yeah, okay. Thanks, Pastor Jim."

"Anytime, Sam," comes the gentle reply. "You know that."

The news, or rather the lack thereof after that is not encouraging. Mary doesn't seem to think it particularly odd that a friend of the family is calling for Sam when Pastor Jim does call back in the evening, just hands the phone to Sam and politely ushers Donnie and Lorraine out of the kitchen so that he can talk privately, for which he's grateful. Unfortunately, Pastor Jim doesn't have anything at all useful to tell Sam. No one has heard from either John or Dean in days, in some cases weeks.

Mary is hovering in the doorway when Sam hangs up the phone. "Is everything all right, Sam?"

Sam realizes he's been chewing the side of his thumb throughout the call, and that it's bleeding slightly as a result. He shoves his hand out of sight hastily. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just a little, uh, worried about the hearing, so Pastor Jim promised Dean he'd talk to me." It's only a half-lie.

"Did it help?" She's smiling at him, but her expression is a little sad nonetheless, as though she already suspects the answer and knows it won't be a good one. Maybe, Sam thinks, she's seen this sort of thing happen too many times already. He shrugs.

"A bit, I guess. Not really."

"So what's got you worried?"

He fidgets, picks at the side of the counter again. "I want to stay with my dad and my brother." He bites down on his tongue before he can betray himself any further, before all his worries that Dad decided he was too much work and simply bailed, dragging Dean with him, boil to the surface.

She seems to get it, though. "I know they want you too. Your brother sounded worried when he called, I'm surprised he hasn't been back in touch."

Shit. Sam licks his lips. "I, uh, he called while you were gone and I talked to him. I'm sorry, I should have told you, I didn't think you'd mind."

His stomach roils at the delighted look on her face. "Of course I don't mind, sweetie. I'm so glad you two got the chance to talk. I didn't come in here to give you the third degree. Donnie complained about how we don't have any 'cool' movies," she crooks her fingers to make quotation marks. "So we've rented a movie at his request. I'm going to put Lorraine to bed, because I think she's a bit too young even for _Batman and Robin_, but you're welcome to join us. Have you seen it?"

Sam shakes his head. Between school and training and hunting, it's not like he ever has time to go to the movies. He remembers Dean going to see it and not thinking much of it, but then Dean probably had his hand up Debbie Petersen's shirt at the time, so his judgement can't be trusted.

Donnie is unreasonably excited about watching the movie. "My Dad was going to take me last summer," he tells Alan, while Mary sets up the VCR. "We didn't go, but he promised he was gonna to take me to the movies on our next visit. I wanna see the _Mask of Zorro_, and he said we could get popcorn and soda and he's gonna take me for ice cream after."

Sam picks an armchair off to the side, eases himself into it, leg stretched out so he can rest the heel of his cast on the floor. Alan looks up from where he's been listening pretty attentively to Donnie —Sam wonders if anyone ever paid attention to the kid before now, and if that's why Donnie never shuts up anymore— and immediately gets up to drag over a footrest.

"Keep your leg up," he says kindly. "It'll be more comfortable that way."

"Um, thanks," Sam squirms until Alan moves back to sit next to Donnie.

If he were home he'd be sharing the couch with Dean, making a point of obnoxiously shoving both his feet into his brother's lap while Dean rolled his eyes and put up with it so he could keep his leg stretched. The Williamses obviously don't believe in microwave popcorn, either, but Mary has sliced a couple of apples and put them in a bowl along with a bunch of grapes for snacking. It's a little surreal, but it's nice, too, Sam finds, relaxing into the chair in spite of himself. He feels bad already about what he's planning —these people obviously want him around, want him to feel at home and taken care of— but all this is doing is reminding him of how his real family aren't here, how it all feels wrong.

By the time the movie's over Donnie is asleep, listing against Alan's shoulder, and Sam is feeling none-too-awake himself. He drags himself to his feet, almost tripping over his crutches, while Alan simply gathers Donnie into his arms and carries him to bed, wishing Sam a good night over his shoulder. He and Mary are still making a point of leaving Sam his space, and so he makes his way to bed by himself, folding his clothes and setting them on the chair. He stretches out his full length on the bed with nothing to hinder him, and finds himself wishing that Dean was here, complaining about his taking up too much room with his oversized limbs, and poking him in the kidneys with his elbow.

It's almost impossible to sleep in an empty bed.

Sam gets up early the next day, long before anyone else in the house is up. It doesn't take long to pack up his belongings and make sure everything is safely stowed in his duffel bag. He stares at his schoolbooks for a few minutes, tempted to pack them as well, but it's going to be hard enough going without all that extra weight, and school is going to be out for the summer really soon anyway. There's no point in taking them with him, he's just going to have to start over next year, that's all. He shoves the bag under his bed, makes sure that the room doesn't look as though he's just stripped it of everything he owns. He's been keeping it very tidy anyway, so he doesn't think it shows.

Breakfast is a quiet affair usually. Donnie isn't much of a morning person, and Lorraine is busy telling Mary all about the field trip her class is taking to the zoo today and how great it's going to be and how much she's looking forward to seeing the elephant they have there. Sam keeps his head ducked down, has second helpings of whatever Mary puts in front of him, and tries not to feel bad at the happy expression it puts on her face.

"It's nice to see you eating like a normal teenager," she jokes gently. "Feel free to help yourself to anything out of the fridge, so long as it's not what I'm going to cook for tonight's dinner, okay? No limits on snacks in this house. Donnie," she turns on the kid before he can open his mouth, "that does not mean open season on the cookies. Healthy snacks only."

Donnie sulks, and Sam just nods quickly before she can turn her attention back to him. Alan shepherds Donnie and Lorraine to the car shortly after breakfast, rounding up lunches and backpacks and Lorraine's permission slip. Mary waits until they're gone and then starts her usual routine of setting up the sofa for him.

"You sure you'll be all right on your own again?" she asks.

"Yes, ma'am —Mary," he amends, and is rewarded with yet another smile that makes his stomach clench with guilt. "Do you think I can go back to school next Monday? I'm feeling better, and I don't want to flunk out."

"If you're feeling up to it, then I don't see why not. But from what Audrey has told me you don't have to worry about that. Even if you missed a few weeks of school, you have a perfect grade point average, it won't take you long to make it up, and you're certainly not going to flunk out."

He makes himself nod and smile. "Okay."

She strokes his head once, picks up her purse, and heads for the door. "I'll be back this afternoon, you know where the emergency numbers are."

Then she's gone and Sam is alone. He sits very straight on the sofa, waiting, watching the clock. When fifteen minutes have gone by and he's quite sure she's not coming back for something she might have forgotten, he gets up. He's got a little money of his own, but it's not going to be enough, so he slips into the Williams' bedroom, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. He's going to pay every cent back, he promises himself as he pulls open the top dresser drawer and takes out the envelope of 'emergency cash' that Mary and Alan keep there. He's pretty sure they think he doesn't know about it, that none of the kids do, but he hasn't been John Winchester's son all these years for nothing. There's more than enough to get where he needs to go. He takes a piece of notepaper from the pad by the telephone, pays attention to his handwriting as he pens a hasty thank-you note, complete with promise to repay the money he's taking. They're not going to believe him, of course, but he can't just leave without saying a word. They're good people, he thinks, stomach twisting, but he can't stay.

He retrieves his duffel, shortens the strap until it's strapped tightly to his back so that it won't bump against his leg or his crutches. It's not very comfortable, but it'll work. He's early enough that no one looks at him twice when he makes his way onto the nearest city bus, then transfers onto the bus that will take him to the apartment where he was living with Dean. It's easier to get up the stairs now than when he first came with Audrey, but he's still sweating by the time he gets to the top and picks the lock with some of Mary's hairpins. The place has been stripped almost bare, but Sam knows where to look, finds a bunch of newspaper clippings and notes scribbled in Dean's handwriting in the kitchen trash can. He pockets them immediately without looking at them, makes his way laboriously back down the stairs and hops the next bus, inquiring politely of the driver which bus route will take him to the main bus station, feeling sweat beginning to collect under his arms and at the small of his back.

No one notices him on the city bus this time around either, and he only gets a cursory questioning from the bored-looking woman behind the counter at the bus station about whether he's travelling with a legal adult.

"No, ma'am, but I'm fifteen now, and I do this a lot. My mom dropped me off so I can go see my dad. It's his turn to have me," he says earnestly, and he sees her expression soften into pity.

"Your daddy waiting for you at the other end?"

"Yes, ma'am. I have to call and tell him what time I'm getting there as soon as I get my ticket."

"All right, then. You going to need help on the bus?" she asks, looking at the cast on his leg.

"No, it's okay, I got it. Thanks anyway," Sam carefully peels a few bills out of his wallet and lays them in front of her, collects his tickets and his change, and makes his way to the bus.

Sam spends a tense few moments waiting in line for the bus, trying to look for all the world like just another bored teenager going on a trip he doesn't feel like taking. His palms are sweaty against the grips of the crutches, though, his heart beating just a shade too fast as he worries that Mary or Alan might have come home early and found him gone. The last thing he needs is for them to come looking for him or alert the police before he's safely out of town. Nothing happens, though, and he's able to climb aboard the bus without incident —although the high, narrow steps are something of a challenge. The driver grabs his duffel bag for him and stows it on the luggage rack, and Sam flashes him a grateful smile before wedging himself into the seat by the window.

It's a few hours to Ashland, plenty of time to look through all the newspaper clippings and notes that Dean left behind. He resolutely ignores the few mildly curious looks he attracts, settles in for the ride with his reading material, the scenery whipping by him out of the corner of his eye. By the time the first sign for Ashland goes by he thinks he's figured out the research Dad and then Dean must have done on the haunting. There's a picture of a farmhouse and a middle-aged couple standing in front of it above an article recounting a murder-suicide. It's the kind of story with which Sam has become depressingly familiar: wife cheats on man, man catches wife in bed with lover, man shoots wife and lover where they lie and buries their bodies in the root cellar before turning his twelve-gauge on himself. Sam rubs his eyes, suddenly tired. One day, he promises himself, this isn't going to be his life anymore. Right now, though, Dad and Dean are facing this on their own, and something must have gone wrong or he'd have heard from them by now. Or he'd have heard from Dean, at least.

Sam gets helped off the bus by another man who simply puts a hand under his elbow to keep him from falling when he notices him hunched over against the cramping pain in his limbs and ribs from being seated in the same position for so long. "You got someone meeting you, son?"

"Yessir." The reply comes automatically to his lips. He's not John Winchester's son for nothing. "He might be running a few minutes late, but he should be here any minute now. Thanks for the help."

The man frowns a little. "You want me to stay until your ride gets here? You don't want to have to walk to wherever you're going, not in this heat and on crutches to boot."

He ducks his head with a quick shake. "That's nice of you, but I'm fine, really. I'm sure he'll be here really soon. Thanks anyway," he adds with a smile as the man takes his leave.

As soon as he's relatively sure the coast is clear, he sets off from the bus station and locates the nearest phone booth. He checks the names and locations of all the motels in town, narrows it down to three and pulls out a quarter. "Yes, hello," he says as authoritatively as he can manage when the phone picks up, "what room number is Mr. Cruickshank staying in?" He keeps his fingers crossed that Dad hasn't changed identities yet. He's pretty sure he hasn't —the Cruickshank card should last at least another few weeks if not longer.

There's a pause, a rustling of paper, and the sound of gum cracking. "Room fifteen. You want me to put you through?"

He can't believe his luck. "Yes, please."

"I don't think he's in, for what it's worth. His partner came looking for him and I ain't seen them in a couple of days. They're still paid up until day after tomorrow, though."

The phone rings endlessly, until eventually Sam just gives up and hangs up the receiver. The motel isn't too far ―less than ten blocks― so he sets out determinedly, tightening the strap of his duffel bag again. It's sweltering in the early afternoon sun, and he wishes he'd thought to buy a bottle of water that he could refill later at the tap in the motel bathroom, but it's too late for that. He sets out determinedly, tightening the strap of his duffel bag again. It's sweltering in the early afternoon sun, and he wishes he'd thought to buy a bottle of water that he could refill later at the tap in the motel bathroom, but it's too late for that. The strap chafes at his chest even through his shirt, and Sam figures that it's probably going to leave a mark that will linger for days. By the time he reaches the motel he's completely drenched in sweat, his bangs sticking to his forehead. The rooms are separate from the check-in counter, which makes it ludicrously easy to break into the room. Dean would be proud, he thinks with a grin. Of course, Dad would complain he was too slow and point out that Dean would have been able to do it in half the time when he was Sam's age. He sighs, the grin fading, but the door is swinging open and letting him into the room where, blissfully, the air conditioning appears to be working, if intermittently.

There's no time to take advantage of the air conditioning, let alone the shower, which he's desperate to try, cast or no cast. Instead he drops his bag on the floor, rolling his shoulders to get rid of the stiffness in his back and shoulders, immediately starts looking around for clues to where Dad and Dean might have gotten to. Both their belongings are there, but it looks like Dad is the only one who bothered to settle in —Dean's duffel is on the floor by the double bed, looking like it hasn't been touched. Dad's journal is lying on the table, which makes sense. Sam knows he won't bring it with him to the actual haunting, in case it gets damaged. He keeps all his notes in it, everything he knows about the supernatural, and it would be a huge loss for him. The upside for Sam is that he can look through everything there is on this latest hunt, including the complete address of the farm in the picture.

Of course, even armed with all this knowledge, that still leaves the problem of getting there. It's not like the farmhouse is in the middle of town. Even a ten-minute drive is way too far for Sam to get to on foot, even if he wasn't on crutches. He sits down at the rickety motel table and lets his head drop onto his folded arms for a few minutes while he tries to figure this out. Every minute that passes is another minute Dad and Dean are in danger —or dead, a traitorous voice at the back of his mind tells him before he can make it shut up— and he needs to man up and think of something fast. Finally he pushes himself upright, sticks his head under the tap in the bathroom long enough to dampen his hair and drink until he's no longer thirsty, and starts putting a plan together.

It's simple enough to switch from his duffel to his backpack. Dad hasn't left much behind, other than his journal and his clothes. Everything Sam might need to help on a hunt is in the trunk of the Impala, which is where Dad and Dean are, at the farmhouse. He spotted a gas station on his way here, and that's where he heads next, ignoring how sore his hands are getting from all the unaccustomed moving around with his crutches. The cashier, an older guy in a greasy shirt and overalls, doesn't so much as spare him a glance until he comes up to the cash and puts down a map of the country to purchase.

"Excuse me," he keeps his tone polite, "would you happen to know where this address is?"

The cashier leans over the counter to look at the address he's recopied onto a fresh piece of notepaper, then nods. "That's the old Hickory place. About two miles out. What you want with that place, son?"

"I have to get out there today," Sam ventures carefully. It's a lesson Dad taught them early and often: start with the simplest version of the truth that won't get you into trouble. The more lies you start with, the more you have to keep straight later on. "Do you know anyone who might be able to give me a ride that far?"

The cashier gives him a dark look, glancing up as the door chimes to let in another customer. "Boy, I don't know what sort of mischief you're up to, but you kids should know well enough by now to steer clear of that place! It's all sorts of dangerous."

Sam shakes his head. Time to lie, it seems. He gives the cashier his best possible wide-eyed look. "Oh, no sir, that's not it. My dad's out there, you see, making a formal survey of the property for the government. It's just," he drops his eyes, makes a point of fiddling with his paper as if he's embarrassed. "He was supposed to pick me up from the bus station an hour ago, and he still hasn't come. He, uh... sometimes he loses track of the time when he's working."

"That so?" Already the cashier's expression is turning a little more sympathetic.

"Yessir. I figure if I can just get out there, I can wait in the car until he's finished. Otherwise, he might forget he was supposed to pick me up today and I'll get stranded. If it were like normal I could just walk, but..." he glances down meaningfully at his cast and crutches.

"That the Hickory place?" someone asks from over his shoulder. Sam starts a little, then turns to find another older man only slightly less greasy-looking than the cashier. "I'm heading past that way myself. Your daddy the one with the nice-looking car I saw earlier?"

Hope flutters wildly in Sam's chest. "That's the one. A black Impala, he's really proud of her. Did all the work himself."

The man extends his hand for Sam to shake. "Name's Jefferson. You give me a minute to settle up here, and I'll give you a lift."

"Thank you, sir, I really appreciate it."

Jefferson tips his hat. "Always happy to help a fellow traveller in need, son."

Jefferson turns out to be a silent travelling companion, for which Sam is grateful, because his head is filled to the brim with swirling thoughts about the case and just what he'll find when he finally gets there. Sam's willing to bet good money that the vengeful spirit is the guy who committed the murders, but it can't be that simple, or Dad would have just salted and burned the remains and that would have been that. That means that something out of the puzzle was missing, probably some human remains inside the house. He sits quietly in the shotgun seat of Jefferson's truck, hands in his lap, trying to work it out.

"We're here," Jefferson's voice jolts him out of his thoughts. "You going to be okay on your own, son?"

The Impala is parked up by the front of the farmhouse, gleaming in the afternoon sun, and his heart performs a strange little flip at the sight, relief flooding through him.

He nods. "I'll be fine," he says, voice a little thick. "That's my dad's car." He opens the truck door, slides to the ground and arranges his crutches under him. "Thank you very much. I can't really pay you back, but..."

"Never you mind that. You just take care, you hear?"

"Yessir. Thank you."

The truck takes off in a cloud of dust, and Sam hurries along the uneven dirt road that leads to the farmhouse, going as fast as he can and heedless of the bumps and holes now that he's so close to his goal. He's out of breath, his back and ribs aching by the time he gets to the front door and tries the handle, and if his shirt hadn't been soaked through before it definitely would be by now. The door is locked from the inside with a deadbolt, won't budge an inch when he tries jostling it with his shoulder. He hammers on the door, arms sore from the effort of getting around on his crutches all day.

"Dad? Dean? Are you in there?"

There's no answer, but he doesn't know where else they would be except in the house. There's no way to see in the top floor, but there are windows on the ground floor and that's a start. When he gets to the third window all the way around on the other side of the house he finally catches sight of Dean, sitting with his back to the far wall, eyes shut, and his heart soars with joy. Dean looks terrible, coagulated blood coating one side of his face, having obviously sheeted from a cut in his forehead, and he looks like he's cradling one arm against his chest. The angle is awkward enough that Sam can't see everything, but he spots what looks like a salt ring on the floor at Dean's feet, which means that, whatever else happened, the spirit is still loose in the house and still presents a grave enough threat that Dean had to resort to extreme measures to protect himself. He tries to push open the window, but it's stuck fast. Frustrated, he rattles it in its frame, and Dean's eyes fly open.

"Sammy?"

Sam can't hear him through the glass, but the word is clear. He grins, keeps working at the window even as he sees Dean lean to the side just out of sight. A moment later Dean shifts aside and their Dad takes his place, dishevelled and unshaven, the side of his face badly bruised. He looks shocked, as though Sam is the last person he ever expected to see, and Sam has to fight off the fleeting thought that maybe Dad was counting on never seeing him again. He raps on the window instead.

"Dad! I can't get in!"

His Dad says something, but Sam can't make it out. They're too far from the window for sound to get through, and he's not quite good enough at reading lips to be able to tell what he's saying. Dean, however, gets it right away and mouths one word at him: _lock-down_.

Sam nods to show he's understood. That makes perfect sense: the spirit has them on lock-down, making sure nothing and no one gets in or out of the place. It's rare, but sometimes when angry spirits are extra-powerful they can manage it. Knowing his father and brother, they'll have scoured the place from top to bottom, which means that the spirit's remains aren't in the house at all, but somewhere else. He backs away from the window, trying to work out a plan. The notes in Dad's journal made it clear the guy was cremated, as were his two victims, so that means there have to be remains elsewhere in the house, like hair or something, a keepsake that's tying the spirit in place. Except that doesn't make sense, because both Dad and Dean are inside, and they would have searched the placed from top to bottom, gone through it with a fine-toothed comb once they realized they couldn't get out. That means that, whatever it is, it's nowhere in the house they can get to.

He's missing something, that's for sure. Time to regroup. Normally he'd be doing that with Dad and Dean, letting them take the lead on this, but that's impossible now. They're relying on him to figure this out, and if he's right then they've both been trapped in there for days, which means time isn't on his side. He makes his way back to the car, stumbling a bit on the uneven ground, the sun beating down on the back of his head and neck, and prays that they at least left the trunk unlocked. They did, much to his relief. He leans on the bumper, taking refuge in what little shade the open trunk has to offer, and methodically begins going through the contents and packing essentials into his back-pack so he can carry them and still have the use of his hands for his crutches –a flashlight, salt, a container of lighter fluid, a packet of matches, and a baggie full of herbs for smudging just for the hell of it. There's holy water in the trunk too, and after a moment's hesitation Sam figures he's better safe than sorry. He doesn't actually know what you'd use holy water on, but if Dad keeps it in the trunk then it must serve some useful purpose.

Sam tugs the newly weighted-down backpack onto his shoulders, starts making his way counter-clockwise around the house, the opposite way from when he was trying to find his father and brother. He hasn't gone much further than rounding the first corner when he spots the large wooden doors in the ground leading into what looks like a root cellar or maybe a storm shelter, and that's when things start clicking into place. The remains have to be down there, he tells himself, there's no other explanation, especially if there's no access to the cellar from inside the house. It would have been hard for the owner of the house to drag two bodies down there, but then again it wouldn't be the first time –people who perpetrate murder-suicides aren't exactly known for their straight thinking.

He feels oddly vindicated when one of the heavy doors opens after a fair bit of tugging on his part. It's incredibly awkward trying to balance on one leg and haul open the door, even when he abandons both his crutches to get a two-handed grip on the door handle and Sam ends up landing on his ass on the hard-packed earth with a painful jolt. He grits his teeth, braces himself against the wall of the house in order to get back to his feet, then feels his stomach bottom out as he peers into the darkness below. The steps leading into the dank cellar are quite possibly the narrowest, most rickety things he's ever laid eyes on. There's no time to hesitate, though, so he simply sits on the lip of the door frame, clutches his crutches clumsily to his chest and slides down the steps one by one on his ass. It's undignified, but it's better than falling down the stairs and hurting himself worse than he already is.

It's pitch-black at the bottom beyond the small patch illuminated by the open door, so Sam pulls the flashlight out of his pack and switches it on, sweeping the sickly beam around and trying to get his bearings. It's like any number of other dank, dark cellars he's been in before, lined with mouldering wooden shelves with old, dusty canning jars. One of these days, Sam promises himself, he's going to find a farmhouse where nice, normal people live and ask to see their root cellar, just to see what a cellar is supposed to look like when it's part of a normal, living household. This one smells of decay and death, the scent threatening to suffocate him, and he's tempted to pull his t-shirt over his nose and mouth, except that it would probably end up impeding his movements even more.

Sam shuffles forward slowly on his crutches, unable to see much more than a foot or so in front of him in the yellowish beam of light. As careful as he is, he pitches forward when his left crutch suddenly comes to rest on thin air rather than the dirt floor of the cellar, and he has to twist painfully in order to sprawl on his side next to what turns out to be the remains of a very large hole dug in the ground. It's where the farmer buried his victims, Sam realizes, bile rising to flood his mouth. There's a faint coppery tint to the air here, from old blood he imagines. The wife and her lover must have bled to death in the hole where the guy must have planned to bury them forever.

He's trying to get back to his feet when he suddenly sees his breath plume in front of his face, barely has time to roll to the side before the spirit lunges at him, its hands plunging into the earth where he was lying a moment before. It's not the farmer, that much he sees right off once he gets himself righted, scooting away along the floor and fumbling with his pack —it's not the man from the photo he saw. He shoves his hand into his pack, pulls off the lid from the container of salt and tosses a handful at the spirit before it can come for him again. It disappears with a snarl of rage, and he takes advantage of the few moments' of peace this will afford him to crawl back toward the hole in the floor, dragging his pack with him.

It has to be the dead lover. There's no other dead male in this household, and it would make sense, if he was buried in this hole for a while. There's probably a lot of blood down there, Sam reasons, enough to qualify as human remains. Or maybe he's tied to something about the woman, it's hard to tell, but Sam is willing to bet that it's in this really sorry excuse for a grave, so he unceremoniously dumps all the salt in his canister into the hole, trying to spread it around as much as possible. His ribs aren't exactly happy with the treatment they're receiving, but with one arm wrapped firmly around his middle it's bearable. He grabs the lighter fluid, ends up splashing a fair bit of it over his sleeve before he aims it properly, hoping to God that it's saturating the remains properly.

The flashlight is long gone, not that it was much use to begin with, and it takes far too long to locate the matches in the outside pocket of his pack. Just long enough, in fact, for the spirit to re-materialize and snap Sam's head back with a blow that he isn't sure hasn't severed his spinal cord. He wriggles his hands and the toes that aren't in a cast, decides he hurts way too much to be paralysed, and his left hand closes around the matchbook. Thank God. Another blow sends him rolling across the floor, his crutches flying in the opposite direction, and he cries out when his bad leg cracks painfully against the wall.

The hole is right there. "Come on, you bastard!" He grits his teeth, pulls himself back across the floor by his elbows and using his good leg to push himself faster, ignoring the screaming pain in his leg and ribs, the matchbook still clenched in his hand. It takes one more try —and another solid hit from the murdered Lothario, who apparently lost all ability to distinguish between his victims once he was dead— before he's able to light a match, setting the whole matchbook ablaze in the process. It's not like he has the luxury of subtlety at this point, is his last thought before something cold and impossibly hard connects with the side of his head, and he loses his already-tenuous grip on consciousness.

He doesn't know how long it's been when he finally feels himself beginning to rouse. His whole body is sore, not helped by the fact that someone is patting his cheeks. He moans quietly, tries to shift away from the intrusion, but the hands are insistent.

"That's it, Sammy, wake up for me now," Dean's voice cuts through the last of the fog, and he opens his eyes to find himself outside, blinking painfully in the afternoon sunlight. Dean beams at him, making the dried blood on the side of his face crack and flake off.

Sam turns his head, still feeling a little dizzy, feeling something soft cradling the back of his skull, but he can't figure out what it is because he can see both of Dean's hands. Everything is a little too bright. "Dean? You okay? Where's Dad?"

"Right here, kiddo," his father says from just behind him, making him start. "How are you feeling?" Dad's hands shift a little under his head, probing for injuries, and as he moves Sam's nose is suddenly filled with the scent of leather and gunpowder, the oil Dad uses to keep the Impala running. His eyes sting and he blinks hard.

"I'm okay," Sam says, and he thinks it's not a lie. "Banged up some, but I'm okay. What happened?"

Dean's smile shifts to a grin. "You toasted the spirit all by yourself, is what happened! How'd you know it was in the root cellar? Both Dad and me were sure it had to be in the bedroom where that sick SOB did himself in."

Sam struggles to sit up, and to his surprise it's his father who pulls him upright and directly into a hug. He doesn't remember the last time his father voluntarily hugged either of them, and so for a second he just lets himself bask, gropes blindly with one hand until his fingers brush against Dean's arm and tugs on his sleeve. Dean snorts, mutters something about him being a girl, but he tentatively moves closer until Dad just reaches over and hauls him into the hug too. It's awkward and more than a little uncomfortable —Sam's leg is twisted at a painful angle, and Dean's elbow is digging into his ribs— but for the first time in weeks he feels absolutely, unconditionally safe. Can't imagine how he ever thought Dad might not want him back. Finally, though, he pulls away to look his father in the eye.

"Dad, I had to run away from the foster home. They're going to look for me —I took money because I didn't know another way to get here, but—"

Dad smooths his hair back from his face. "Don't worry about it, Sammy, we'll figure that out later, I promise. You think you can get up if we help you?"

"It's not their fault," Sam protests, ignoring Dean's attempt to get him to stand up. "And I promised I'd pay them back."

"We will," Dad assures him, getting to his feet and pulling Sam up with him, steadying him when he wobbles a little, trying to balance on his good leg.

Dean picks up Sam's crutches from the ground, and if he notices the change he doesn't say anything. To Sam's surprise he doesn't hand them over, just takes Sam's other arm alongside Dad in order to help him to the car. When Sam glances at his father, he finds him smiling.

"All right, let's get you both home."


End file.
